The Beautiful Damned
by withered
Summary: Tired of playing puppet, and carrying the burden as Magical Britain's most famous token Muggle-born; a night of lust with the social pariah of a ruined House sets her on the course to getting back everything that was taken from her. The war is over, but Hermione's reign has just begun.
1. Chapter 1

_I've ached for you_

 _for a lifetime_  
 _I've waited_

 _I've grown weary_  
 _but I haven't forgotten_

 _Grace_  
 _Mercy_  
 _Deliverance_

 _You are all I have left_  
 _in the storms  
that separated us_  
 _and the fragile calm  
that comes after it_

 _\- a safe haven; hope_

1.

"At least _try_ to look a little less uninterested, Hermione," Lavender hissed.

"But I _am_ terribly uninterested," the other witch replied, smiling and desperately trying not to roll her eyes.

With a flick of her ornate fan, the blonde giggled. "Then _pretend_ you aren't."

The pair stood in silence for a full minute before Lavender made another attempt at a scandalized whisper, "You needn't be so picky; how on earth will you ever find love dismissing every man who looks at you?"

Considering Lavender was the slag her ex-boyfriend cheated on her with, the irony was not lost on Hermione, though aloud she informed their audience, "I don't even know what I'm doing here."

The small crowd gathered around tittered in amusement. _Isn't she so funny? See how modest she is?_ Merlin, she wanted to punch a wall.

Society, however, would look down their noses at such an act of violence, particularly of Hermione's caliber: top of her class, "Brightest Witch of Her Age", war heroine, one-third of The Golden Trio, and fast-rising Ministry official in the Department of Magical Creatures.

It wouldn't do by any stretch of the imagination to cause a scene, not when she was guaranteed that promotion, which was, coincidentally, the only reason she was attending this event in the first place, and wasting her time with the likes of Lavender Brown, of all people, lecturing her on _love_ of all things.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, bowing out gracefully from the conversation she had mentally checked out of ages ago.

The thought of such wasted time made her huff, hand brushing absentmindedly at her hair in frustration but making contact with the mask affixed over her eyes instead.

It was charmed not to come off until their host decreed it; a mysterious man who had not even made his appearance, as far as anyone knew, despite the hour of the party. Such was the life of a wealthy benefactor, Hermione mused; be as rude as possible and have it labeled 'eccentric'.

Rich people were so strange.

" _He's the single most influential man in all of Wizarding Britain, arguably the whole of Europe. He's odd though; typical," Bertina, Hermione's boss, scoffed as she paced the length of her office. Her plans of running into the illustrious benefactor had failed yet again, and another event was to go by where she wasn't in the know purely because one man had decided he didn't want her there._

 _The defeat had Bertina chaffing against the invisible restraints holding her back against gaining political footing; cutting the new interns to pieces for the smallest things which was why Hermione had come in, tone placating. "Is he difficult to reason with?"_

" _He might be or he might not. No one knows who he is, least of all me."_

 _She raised a brow but said no more. It was her second year in the department and she'd heard enough of Bertina's lamentations not to take her caustic sarcasm to heart. But there would be no end to the complaints flooding in if Bertina's bad mood continued; HR was already threatening to cut the interns list in half to save the "fragile" ones, and the office was still understaffed._

" _What if I could get you into one of his events?"_

 _Bertina scoffed again._

" _He may be the most influential man in all of Wizarding Britain but his existence is just as good as any myth. He could be anyone."_

" _I'm still not seeing how you'd be able to get an invitation to his event, then," her boss said flatly._

" _He could be anyone, but I'm not, I'm Hermione Granger, and everyone in Wizarding Britain knows exactly who I am. I'll get us in." If she could get into the Restricted Section at age eleven and the impenetrable Gringotts Vault at seventeen, she could get into anywhere. Arguably, this would be a lot easier than either. With a cheerful exhale as she stood from her chair, Hermione re-buttoned her blazer. "Just be prepared, the bloke is probably a lot less interesting in person."_

Though, his actions said otherwise.

The benefactor provided financial backing to everything that suited him, from capturing and trialing Death Eaters; the care of children whose parents were lost in the Second Wizarding War; the increased funding for the research and treatment of dark curses; the reformation of Hogwarts' education system.

No one knew who he was, but money talked in every language and serenaded in every ideology; to get invited to any of his soirees was to be allowed to affect even just a ripple in the sea that was the benefactor's influence.

All these good deeds, whether paid in penance or not, had little effect on the guest lists to his parties.

The summons said it was a Valentine's Ball but Hermione had never seen anything like it.

The portkey, which doubled as invitations, had swept her away to a darkened room that welcomed guests with a ceiling alight with stars. Chandeliers, floating in mid-air, twinkled from their place amongst the infinity of constellations.

It seemed the benefactor had decided on an abandoned, decayed, greenhouse look as ivy crawled and smothered marble columns; trees, with their bare branches like lingering fingers, stretched like a thorny crown above the room. The plants that bloomed, both magical and mundane, were fully grown and elegantly displayed as they burst brightly in various shades of burgundy, gold, and blue.

The centerpiece of this darker Eden was a pomegranate tree, whose fruits were redder than a pumping heart.

All things considered it seemed like the last place to have any sort of romantic gathering.

Hermione, however, found the room curiously enticing; it whispered danger in its darkness, yet still managed to coax an almost perverse sense of sexuality as partygoers embraced in the lingering shadows; bare skin seeming to wink at her from just beyond her vision.

The masks provided anonymity to those who were looking for it, seemingly to hint at all the scandalous things one could get up to if no one knew who you were.

Hermione shook her head and narrowly avoided Cormac McLaggen, again.

She had no idea how _he_ got in, but they had gone on a date a few weeks after she and Ron had split and Hermione almost regretted sleeping with him.

The sex had been fine, although it wasn't anything special. Clearly, he begged to differ, going to great lengths to make sure all and sundry knew he had bedded the great Hermione Granger.

Perching herself beneath the pomegranate tree, mindful of the small twigs being weighed down by its labor, Hermione sipped her Pinotage, grateful for the mask that concealed her. She wasn't fussed about wearing it in the first place but, now, she was silently thanking it for keeping her hidden from Cormac.

It occurred to her, as she reached up to touch the adornment with her fingers, just how appropriately it matched the theme of the room. The mask spread from her forehead, over her dark eyes, down to her cheekbones. It was edged in gold trim and speckled with honeyed glitter. Peacock feathers were attached to the left side, entwining themselves around Hermione's natural curls. The right side had leaves extending out, patterned with gold and shimmering crystals that hung back around her temple in a circlet, a crown; an Eve for Eden.

Several guests thereafter approached her for conversation or, as she had found out earlier when she was standing with Lavender, to spend the night with her. Hermione simply waved them off.

"The point of a party is to mingle, you know," a stranger informed her as he sat beside her with little care to whether she wanted his company or not.

"I'm not interested in mingling."

"No?" Hermione fancied that, if she could see his eyebrows beneath his admittedly terrifying mask, they would be raised in surprise.

"No. Everyone here either wants to network or shag and, frankly, I'm not in the mood for either."

"I'd think someone like you would at least be open to one of them."

Her brows knitted and the grip on her wine glass tightened just a smidge. "Someone like me?"

"Ambitious, career driven; wouldn't you just jump at the opportunity to get to know your bosses better?" Oh.

"Usually," she replied, "but I've found that it pays not to know them too well. My moral compass is rather bothersome."

"Oh? Do tell."

Hermione considered him. Masquerade ball and charmed masks or not, she had no doubt that her identity was easy enough to decipher for anyone _actually_ looking for her. The guests around her had immediately congregated to their typical groups after all, and she could guess – just by walking passed them – who everyone was. If she flapped her gab, what would be the downside?

Her perfect image tarnished? The promise of her promotion revoked? Perhaps they'd rethink doling her out as a form of appeasement to the displaced and largely unhappy Muggle-born community, but she highly doubted that.

"I needed a signature from one of my colleagues in order to get a law passed, he refused," she began slowly.

"And?"

"I threatened to tell his wife that she was competing with a man, not a woman for his affection. I may have also implied, correctly," she added, "that he had only married her to secure his family's fortune."

"He's likely pure-blood then," the man answered thoughtfully, "but the possibility of them marrying purely for him to have children is not uncommon."

"I had considered that," she allowed, "though my attempts to get to know him several events before led me to the conclusion that _that_ was not the arrangement he had with his wife."

"He convinced her he loved her," her companion decided after a moment's contemplation.

"Precisely," she concurred. "He wasn't indifferent to her, though not necessarily in the way she wanted, so I threatened to her tell if he didn't sign. Words cut deeper when they're true and, having met her myself, it's a suspicion she's been denying for a long time; to be forced to face it would destroy her."

"I never took you for someone cruel."

She shrugged. "Getting the law passed was important; it was the right thing to do."

A small twig fell onto her lap; the pomegranate as small as a berry and as dark as a spot of blood on the white dress she had chosen to wear.

He chuckled lowly. "And here I thought you were sitting alone to look dull and uninteresting."

"Aren't I?"

"No, actually," he murmured, his voice deep, warm, and smooth. "I find you fascinating."

"Why is that?"

"Because here you are; the most beautiful woman in the room and you're alone."

"By choice," she conceded, swirling her glass and admiring his reflection through it.

He was taller than her and had to stretch his legs out a little as he sat; his shoulders broad and his dress robes perfectly tailored in charcoal, stretching across his chest with every movement of his hands. She noted that he tended to gesture when he spoke and that he wore a solid black ring on his left ring finger which contrasted sharply with his marble white skin, drawing attention to the largeness of his palms and the length of his fingers.

"Can I persuade you to change your mind?"

She placed her glass on the lip of the planter beside her and turned to look at him properly.

He was handsome, even with the top half of his face hidden from her. Tugging the pomegranate from the twig that held it, Hermione brought it to her lips. He had a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw; though to say he simply had these things was an understatement, he _had it_ in the same way that his very existence had witches stopping to stare at him. She licked a stray drop of the fruit's juice. "You are already sitting next to me, aren't you?"

"That's not necessarily all I want to do to you."

Hermione felt that incessant pull at her belly as she threw one leg over the other, conscious of the way the material of her dress slid luxuriously to the side exposing her tanned skin. To his credit, his eyes didn't leave her face. She chuckled. "I thought I told you I wasn't interested in networking, or shagging."

"You aren't here with anyone," he observed. He did well not to glance at her bare leg; his distance from her was controlled. Slowly, Hermione caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

"It doesn't mean I'm going to leave with anyone either."

It was his turn to chuckle as he stood, offering her a hand. "Who said anything about leaving?"

"Unless you're planning on a romp in the coat closet," she began, accepting, "I'd take a guess and say you're our gracious benefactor."

His lips lifted in a smirk as if she was supposed to know that from the beginning. "You _are_ the Brightest Witch of Our Age."

Tucking her hand in his arm, a gesture Hermione acknowledged was common in pure-blood breeding, although hardly displayed by the likes of Ron Weasley and Cormac McLaggen, her partner led her towards the end of the room where they ascended the staircase quietly.

"Do you make it a habit of leaving your parties unannounced?"

"Considering I _arrive_ at them unannounced, I'm sure no one will care. Though if you'd rather, I can get rid of them?"

As they stood over the landing, Ministry officials and esteemed members of their community spread out to them, too caught up to notice that they were being watched, Hermione noted, "I go to work with these people every day – we share elevators, we pass each other in hallways, we debate meetings, we sit across from one another at lunch or in the bullpen, and they probably remember me best for my association with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley."

"Yet, you're darker than all the good you've done for them," he noted. "The pursuit of knowledge and power rarely ever keeps one innocent."

She looked up at him. "Are you disappointed that you aren't leading an angel to ruin by seducing me then?"

"Not at all," he said, "I have a feeling you'll still corrupt me whether you've got horns or a halo."

"Hmm, I suppose we'll find out, won't we, Malfoy?"

He smirked and ran a finger over her mask. She was unsurprised when the charm gave way as he slipped the disguise down to cover her lips and bare her eyes. His fingers nudged her chin up. "You're beautiful when you're brilliant."

He replaced the mask over her eyes and took her hand.

.

As expected, he led her to his bedroom, but instead of directing her immediately to the bed, he gestured to a pair of French doors off to the side as he informed her that they were adjacent to the library.

"I sincerely hope you don't think my performance needs an added boost of enthusiasm," Hermione quipped. She lingered at the doorway where, with widened eyes, she realized that his room overlooked bookcases that put Hogwarts' library to shame in terms of sheer length and breadth.

"I wonder if it'll work," he mused, removing his outer robe and draping it over the chair he'd chosen to sit on; his arm resting on the top of the chair with the back of fingers obscuring his mouth as he observed her.

Leaning against the door jam, she enquired, "Heard bad things about me?"

"On the contrary, I saw McLaggen chasing after you like a puppy. You've had him, what? Once?"

She rolled her eyes. "Regrettably."

Hermione had no doubt Cormac would talk and that was partly why she had agreed to go out with him; he did the work for her. She was bored of hearing the whispers, from, "Ron cheated on the poor thing" to "McLaggen shagged Miss Goody-Two-Shoes". Although it vexed her that she was a constant source of gossip, it royally pissed off Ronald.

Malfoy added, practically reading her mind, "You could have shagged me. Weasel would've gone into cardiac arrest considering how high his blood pressure would have shot."

Thinking of McLaggen boasting to whoever would listen compared to Malfoy with his sophisticated passive-aggressive tactics and methodical 'punch them in the heart' approach, Hermione shook her head. "I wanted him angry, not dead. There's no fun in that. Besides, you seemed more of a 'main event' than an 'opening act'."

"Ah," he echoed, his smirk lifting the corner of his lips as his hand fell to rest on the arm of the chair.

"I don't know why I bother to compliment you," she lamented, "if you think I need a library to get me going."

"I just wanted to see you happy, really. I haven't seen you happy in a while," he explained as she approached him, unaware that the straps of her dress had loosened. "I want you to be happy, Hermione."

"Have you been watching me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He tilted his head as she straddled his lap, keeping his eyes on hers as she settled herself; smoldering heat over firm hardness.

Her fingers trailed the nape of his neck, the smoothed edges of her nails scraping distractingly against the atlas of his spine. She smiled as she watched his Adam's apple bob once before she reached behind her to undo what remained of her dress. In a whisper it fell between them, sagging only slightly where the curve of her arse prevented it from slipping completely off.

His hand cupped back of her head and brought her lips to his, practically groaning with approval at the sheer taste of her.

The slightly roughened skin of his palm brushed against her vertebrae and she shivered at the contrast, widening her legs slightly as she pulled herself closer to him on the chair; her nakedness pressing against his clothed body. His fingers trailed further up, however, mussing her dark hair to remove her mask with ease from over it, the thin material of it fluttering to the ground beside them.

Hand ghosting over his chest, Hermione fingered the buttons of his shirt before peeling at the gaps proffered. She lightly grazed his skin beneath before ripping the buttons lose, watching with amusement as he withdrew to survey the damage.

Not particularly concerned, his eyes focused on the delicate rise of her chest, held in its precarious place by a white bra with similar detailing to the mask he had removed. He fingered the hooks behind the obstacle thoughtfully as his other hand trailed over her arse, offering a generous squeeze of one cheek before slipping under the dress to finger the cavern of moist warmth beneath.

Easily, his fingers found purchase between the material of her underwear and the folds he was now aching to caress. At the touch of his index finger against her swollen lips, she gasped, jerking slightly.

"Shh," he soothed, tracing his nose against the column of her neck before finding _the_ spot – right where her pulse thundered beneath her skin. He caressed the skin with his lips, inhaling a lingering scent of vanilla and jasmine, as his thumb pressed into a little bundle of nerves with every experimental thrust of his finger.

Too distracted by the various sensations to notice he had removed her bra, Hermione mewled as he bit hard on her nipple and replaced one finger with two.

Draco stilled for one beat, then a second, before soothing her breast with his tongue as his fingers pulsed in that achingly perfect come-hither motion. Impatient and so painfully tight inside, she rocked against him, gasping when his thumb brushed there-there- _there_ while the tenting beneath her prodded her just-just- _just_ - _juust-_

Suddenly she was lifted; his finger remained within her pulsing core as his free arm held her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her further into the room. Hermione gasped as the bed, with its silken soft coverings, jarred her from the perfect friction against her body. She moaned as he removed the digit, pushing her legs apart in order to explore her with his mouth.

His tongue serenaded her with poetry as he lapped her up and drank her in until she was seeing stars behind her eyelids. "Draco!"

His groan vibrated between her legs. She threw her head back and gasped, hands reaching for something to hold on to as she felt the bruising pressure of his fingers on her hips, the tightening of his biceps beneath her thighs.

" _Fuck_ ," he exclaimed as if he had just discovered something new. Suddenly he was exploring it, worshipping it...pillaging it.

Her groans of protest, of wanting, of needing _more-more-more,_ died on her tongue as everything came apart beneath her when his fingers joined his tongue in a liturgy.

La petite mort seized her briefly. The next thing she knew, Draco's lips were stroking her inner thigh, his thumbs soothing gentle circles as he moved to explore the rest of her body slowly. The weight of him on her abdomen made the heat within her liquefy all over again, his hardness pressed against her as he lathered attention on her pert breasts.

It wasn't fair, she decided as he rolled her nipples between his fingers, that she was completely bare and boneless and he was starving. He deserved her attentions.

Any attempt on her part, however, to flip him over was futile even as he paused to remove what remained of his shirt. She was _his_ to worship.

The best she could do to honor him was lift her foot to rub against his hardened length. He raised his head and groaned in response before his eyes met hers once more.

Merlin, she was a vision. Her head was nestled amongst the stark-white pillows, dark curls loose and wild.

Draco lifted himself up to undress quickly, his mask discarded along with his robes. Hermione held her breath as she gazed at him; a dangerous model of physical perfection, paying reverence to the altar of her willing body.

The sleekness between her legs made sheathing himself easier despite his size. He filled her, every inch, wall to wall. It was perfect, whole, and – "God," she practically sobbed, "move, Draco, please!"

He growled, lifting her by the arse with one hand and gathering both her hands above her head in the other. Driving in and out of her with such ferocity, the bed rocked against the wall. Hermione gasped at the sudden shock of him emptying her and then filling her again and again in a dizzying rhythm she could only get swept away by.

His eyes were shut tight in ecstasy as he moved above, within, and against her. Hermione watched him in wonder; masculine and lethal and dripping sex from every pore – she was sure he was crafted and carved from marble – every muscle that trembled and tightened; every vein that protruded and thrummed was the culmination of some god's successful attempt to make a man so perfect that even angels would sin for a taste of him.

She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pushing and pulling with every tightening inch of her core, and he groaned nearing his peak.

Draco opened his mercurial eyes to peer at her then, his hooded lids slit like the moon from behind a cloud. There was no lust there for that brief moment, just pure and utter clarity; as if seeing the break in the sky for the first time in an endless storm; a safe harbor amongst the unforgiving rocks; sanctuary.

In the throes of something carnal, he gave her his devotion, and it was beautiful and strange, and that was when Hermione knew she was fucked in more ways than one.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Hermione never really dreamed in whimsical fantasy, always just memories distorted by brain chemistry. Draco featured in her memories, mostly the bad ones – the sad ones; but she ached at the visions of him that came to visit her in her dreams.

They were a possibility that could never be explored, at least not with their existence entrenched in war and a culture so unkind to their union.

She learned to leave him in the past, to keep her thoughts of him in her dreams where reality couldn't tarnish their brief memories of each other. The ones where they weren't constantly hurting one another, as few and far between as those moments were.

But Hermione couldn't deny that she thought of him when she shouldn't; wishing his being into place beside her to give her that look and smirk and speak words so familiar to her that she could already hear them in her head. His ghost keeping her company through the tribulations that Harry and Ron had all but abandoned her to.

Draco hadn't died in the war but, upon reading his testimony under Veritaserum, she wished that he had – if only to spare him the trauma – if only to save him from the consequences that would follow thereafter, despite being as much of a victim to the war as the rest of them. In a way, it had worked.

He hadn't come to her when all was said and done, but what did she expect?

In Hogwarts, all they had was a strange attraction fueled by nothing more than hormones and a self-hatred that burned them both. They were awful to each other even when they were together in secret – it was good to keep _that_ on the surface; that they were never meant to be together, that they hated one another; that no one would ever approve of them – in Hogwarts, within his family, during the war, probably _ever_.

When the war ended and they were both still alive, any flicker of hope borne of naivety was extinguished. The Prophet and the Ministry were looking for a scapegoat and Draco Malfoy fit the bill perfectly. Even if she had tried, just to voice a thought of support out loud, everything she fought for would be stripped from her.

Hermione was the only Muggle-born on the council that worked with the Ministry to re-stabilize the country, and everyone else around that table wanted nothing more than to throw her back to the wolves they set her to fight against in the first place.

He seemed to understand.

Not once did her name leave his lips, not once did he try and reach out to her and Hermione felt like she had to mourn him all over again.

When she had first heard of the benefactor, she squashed the bit of hope that warmed her heart – ignoring that incessant voice in her head that wished it was him behind it all. But he had chosen to forget her, and move on, just as she had chosen to do for him because _it's for the best, it's for the best, it's for the best –_

They died and buried each other the morning after he had killed Dumbledore after all.

It was easier to be apart; easier to be on opposite sides of the war, to hate each other, to try and kill one another if –

This - last night - wouldn't change anything, was the bittersweet thought that echoed in her head.

Hermione was roused into consciousness by soothing fingers running over her forehead; smoothing out the furrow in her brow before trailing playfully down her nose and resting against her lips. They lingered there for only a moment, dragging her bottom lip playfully as they slipped underneath her chin. The pressure ebbed into a feather-light touch as it danced down her neck, caressing that sensitive spot just below her ear, making her sigh.

She could almost feel him smirk in amusement as he thumbed that patch of skin, urging her to adjust herself on his pillows and bare her neck to him.

He delicately followed the contours of her chest, circling his index and middle fingers around her tightening nipple. He rolled it with his thumb before placing his hand completely under her breast and squeezing. She sighed again.

She gasped at the delicious feeling of his warm tongue against her as his busy digits continued their exploration of her skin. Reaching the apex of her legs, they continued to caress and explore. His attentions had her in such a relaxed mood, Hermione felt as if she could stay in that single position forever.

Draco had been reliving the paths he had discovered last night, using teasing touches and playful fingers to map out the places that had given him the most reaction. Every jerk, every unbridled moan, every sigh was catalogued as he rewarded each with an open-mouthed kiss and a devilish flick of his tongue.

Her eyes shot open then as she focused on his hooded eyes, he whispered almost reverently, "Perfect."

Those skillful fingers now slipped inside her and he moaned at the way her moist heat enveloped them as if welcoming him home.

Her inner walls tightened around his digits, embracing him with words she couldn't say as she found herself paralyzed to nothing else but the feel of him inside her.

He quickly advanced from one finger to two, before adding an ambitious third. Hermione jerked and moaned, her breathing becoming more erratic as his thrusts increased. Her voice followed brokenly, her legs widening to permit him entrance, begging him to.

The weight of his erection had her squirming beneath him.

"What is it you want? Open your eyes. You're hiding from me," he teased.

"Not...hiding, indulging," Hermione gasped as she felt him move at her entrance, testing whether he was as welcome as his fingers were. She mewled as he shallowly slipped in and out. "Merlin! Draco! Please...please…"

"Open your eyes, Granger. I want to see your eyes when you ask."

Gritting her teeth to withdraw her moan, Hermione obliged and was surprised to find that Draco had donned his mask once more. He was kneeling before her, bracing his weight on his hands just beneath her outstretched arms.

His lips were set in his trademark smirk. His eyes were hidden, however, as she reached up to cup his face. She threaded her fingers through his pale hair, searching for the clasp to remove the mask. Whatever game he wanted to play was of no interest to her.

With the mask successfully loosened, she tugged it off his face and paused.

Draco seemed uncomfortable without it, and the hands he was using to brace himself tightened to fists beside her. Hermione only had eyes for his face, however. She gazed at the hand-sculpted perfection of every line and furrow in his darkened expression, from his patrician nose to the jut of his chin, across the defined cheekbones and jawline that seemed cut from the finest crystal.

Caressing every line and angle, she drank in the strange sadness and hesitation that lingered in his storm-grey eyes. Even if Draco had been fully clothed, with glamors aplenty to hide both his face and the cursed tattoo at his forearm, she would have known that look.

She wanted to search that mixture of dark and light that flickered across his face and eyes, bottle it up, and drink it in until she was drunk off of it. Drawing him closer until their lips brushed, her eyes staring intently into his, she murmured, "You; I want you."

Their bodies clicked into place and he fit so perfectly in her that she could have cried. Every curve and limb followed suit as if they were, suddenly, a whole person. They shifted and it seemed for an instant that the whole world did too.

With every gasp and groan to follow, two lost souls chased an intimacy that could not be contained in a single moment.

Draco may have looked like he needed to be saved but he, in turn, was also saving her in, perhaps, the only way she wanted to be saved and, in the end, wasn't that all she had ever wanted?

.

"As good as you look in my shirt, I sincerely hope you're planning to put on more than that," he drawled.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, pausing for only a second to admire how beautifully he was framed as he leaned back against the black headboard, white pillows scattered around him.

The blanket was thrown over his waist for modesty's sake, but there was little decency to be had for his bare chest and abdomen. There should be temples and shrines built for them.

In the morning light, his pale skin looked golden and his shock of white hair seemed dusted in sunshine.

"Jealous that it looks better on me than you?" she quipped, buttoning it up.

"Jealous that someone else could see that cute bare arse of yours, other than me, once you walk out." She noted with a slight flush that, yes; her arse did stick out from under his shirt. "Are you used to it?" he asked then.

"Used to what? Sleeping around?" There was always that dread implication she had to shake off; hilarious really since she'd only ever slept with three other people her whole life. No one ever asked it of Harry when he went off for a few months to "find himself" once Voldemort was good and gone. Even the once vivacious Ginny, waited by the window for him every day for months like the heroine of some trite romance novel, her future already tied to his with their exchange of, "I'll come back for you" and "I'll wait for you."

Ginny could have had the world at her feet. She didn't need to sit around waiting with her heart thumping in her hand. But she also didn't have a stake to claim, and neither did Harry. They could wait and wander and lose themselves as much as they liked. Hermione didn't have that luxury, she reminded herself, brushing aside the resentment.

Draco watched her still, unaware of the double standards and expectation tightening her fists, loosening only a smidge when he corrected, "Leaving. Are you used to it?"

Hermione felt the sudden panic rising within nonetheless, a sharp defense already on her tongue on instinct beside the one urging her to flee like a bat out of hell.

Strangely, she felt the urge to properly look at Draco and explain why she felt leaving was necessary. Why she had become accustomed to it for her own sanity – being left alone to pick up the pieces, to wrestle her demons with no safety net to rely on, and then expected to slip that phony smile on her face and be everything the Ministry and Magical Britain at large expected her to be: The Second Wizarding War's most recognizable war heroine; the brilliant, unmatched Hermione Granger, the most famous Muggle-born token, continuing to fight for their place in the world.

It was almost laughable; the thought of purging herself to a boy that had done his part in vilifying her, to the man that had fought on the other side for her kind's destruction; as if one night of desire could possibly erase their turbulent history, let alone her own hang-ups.

The Universe would revolt and, for that thought alone, she allowed herself the indulgence of the truth, "I had to."

Still, he watched her, and though she thought he would question her further, he asked instead, "You're going to work?"

With a nod and a slight smile she observed, "I don't suppose a rich benefactor like yourself would have similar problems."

Sighing dramatically, Draco cupped his hands behind his head and leaned back. "Well, someone has to make sure the money is going to the right place."

"Ah," she mused, resisting the urge to go back to the bed, bite his bulging biceps, and pay homage to the rosy nipples that pebbled at his chest. "Not up for leaving it to the hands of the Ministry?"

"Not even if you ran it," he jibed.

"You were doing such a good job of not hurting my feelings," Hermione lamented with a snicker.

As she turned to gather up her dress and mask from the evening before, there was a pop! The sound of a tray being left on the bedside table followed by another pop!

"Don't tell me," she groaned, "house elves?"

"I'm reformed, not brand new," he retorted, though that smirk of his lingered even as he took a sip of the tea that was brought in. "I pay them, though, in case you had any question about your libido being morally compromised."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Aren't you going to offer me breakfast?"

"I would, Granger. But you seem in such a rush, I wouldn't want to impede in your escape."

"Even Gryffindors know when to run away from dangerous things."

"It's fortunate that I seem to be your brand of danger, then."

She snorted over the tingle of want beginning to curl at her spine. "Still as cocky as ever, aren't we?"

He shrugged, nonplussed. "Tell me I'm wrong; and that I've somehow managed to deceive you into my bed. Though, bear in mind, I'll be extremely disappointed."

"And I'd hate to disappoint you," she teased, slipping on her heels; happy she could leave with her outer robes covering up last night's outfit. "Fortunately, I won't be. I knew exactly what I was doing when I climbed into bed with you. Or rather, let you throw me onto it."

"Did you?" Draco challenged as she approached the bed once more, popping a pomegranate seed from the little bowl of fruit on the tray as she leaned towards him on her hand, situated tauntingly just beside his naked thigh.

"Of course; I'm clever, don't you know?" she murmured just inches from his lips.

Any retort Draco had died as she closed the distance between them. The tea he had just drunk was slightly bitter in his mouth but the taste was quickly replaced by the pomegranate juice on her tongue. His hand moved forward to cup her head and hold her still as he searched for more of the rich flavor in the warm cavern of her mouth.

The kiss lasted for some time; enough to have them both breathing heavily as they parted, their foreheads pressed against one another.

"What happened to running away from danger?" he whispered.

"Like you said, you might just be my kind of brand," she mused, eyes bright, even as she admitted, "Also; I do take pleasure in disappointing people about their expectation of me so I may not actually be as clever as you think I am."

"No," he snorted. "You're brilliant, and you're terribly beautiful when you are." His lips quirked at the corners and his brow rose in challenge as he continued, "So you'll snog me but you won't have breakfast?"

"You weren't offering breakfast if I recall," she retorted, "Besides, I have to go to work."

"I would have left you to eat," Draco informed.

"Like you left me to sleep?"

"You weren't sleeping," he reminded.

"Yet, here I am, three orgasms before six."

He smirked. "You're welcome."

.

It was so tempting to spend more time in Draco's arms, being caressed and teased by those talented fingers while she still had the chance. She didn't expect their rendezvous to be anything more than a one-night stand after all. But, reprieve or not, Hermione was still needed and she was determined that the day be productive as possible.

She may be the Ministry's puppet, but she did still have some good to do in their world.

By lunchtime she had researched three separate laws the Minister was anxious to enact, her argument against the proposal for a Werewolf Registration was almost complete, and she was currently swamped in anti-creature rhetoric.

The only stand she could ever allow merit into the contrary was from Newt Scamander who wanted a Werewolf Registration purely to ensure all werewolves received adequate financial and medical assistance. Hermione acknowledged that her opponents would work with that angle but knew they would never deliver such promises. The Registration Act was nothing more than a target list for anti-werewolf groups. "Smoke and mirrors," she muttered to herself. "Just like that bloody Obliviate project; those bigoted idiots."

Despite that, Hermione's morning glow continued to shimmer brightly; her body ached deliciously from last night (and this morning's) romp, and she felt far more alert after Draco had laboriously worked to switch her brain off for a few hours – she outright chuckled at the thought of enticing him into her bed – there were upsides to being properly serviced, as Neville had predicted.

Unfortunately, all Draco's hard work was threatening to be unraveled when Ron walked into her office.

"You're proposing," she stated.

His smile dimmed. "I…"

"You're proposing," she continued, "after you cheated on me."

"That was two months ago," he reminded begrudgingly.

Her response was a blank look. Ron, instantly taking on the role of long-suffering victim, sighed loudly. "Come on, Mione…"

Her arched eyebrow could have put McGonagall's legendary look to shame. "'Come on', that's what you're going to say?" He opened his mouth wordlessly, and she charged on, "You cheated on me with the resident gossip which, by the way, you didn't have the balls to stay with after the fact. What the fuck, Ron?"

"You were upset that I cheated and _now_ you're upset that I didn't stay with her?"

"Ron, we were together for seven years. Seven. If you really had to cheat, you could have at least cheated on me with someone you actually wanted instead of whoever was willing to fill your baser urges!"

His face reddened. "I wouldn't have had to if you -"

"What," she interjected sharply. "Go on, say it! If I didn't work so hard; if I didn't take my job so seriously; if I put your needs before my ambition?"

"I was your boyfriend!"

"Now you're my ex."

He looked like he was going to explode and Hermione took some satisfaction in the hard clench of his jaw. But with mechanical slowness, a smile crept to his lips. "It doesn't matter what I was to you then, but you'll be begging me to be your husband soon enough."

"Ronald," she began. "What part of our conversation indicated that I want to marry you?"

"None of it," he allowed. "But you know about the new law, I'm sure."

Her eyes narrowed and, when she didn't deign to respond, Ron elaborated, "It states muggleborns must marry purebloods and you don't break rules." He practically leered at her.

 _Setting a professor on fire, illegally brewing Polyjuice, visiting the Restricted Section of the library (often), using a Time-Turner outside of its allocated use, aiding in the escape of a fugitive...and that was just the first three years of my education_ , she thought, suppressing the roll of her eyes. Where did anyone get the idea that a rule could stop her when it simply gave her the parameters to work around them?

"That's not what the law means." Honestly. It was like talking to a child. "It makes special allowances for pure-blood and Muggle-born marriages; it's seen as bridging the gap between the two factions of wizarding society that caused the rift that led to the last two wars."

Which was all well and good, in Hermione's opinion, most Muggle-borns had little left in the wizarding world and a large majority of pure-bloods had everything taken from them at the war's conclusion. If they wanted an easy way out of poverty they could get married and, for the sake of the next generation, face the prejudice and make amends. The fact that the law wasn't a requirement only made the option more enticing and, according to Blaise Zabini – one of the engineers behind it – it was projected as having a higher chance of success since wizards and witches would be making the choice of their own free will.

Ron insisted, "You need those allowances."

"Do I? Or do you?" Hermione retorted. "I'm never at home anyway; I barely have things as it is; what reason would I need the marital allowances for?"

"Mione, Mione, Mione," he tutted as she scowled at the nickname – something he knew and took pleasure in as he lectured, "Do you really think I know you so poorly as to think the money would attract you?"

"Considering that's the only thing included in the law," she replied, rolling her eyes once more. It was certainly the only thing Ron cared about.

His family didn't need the money: Charlie was still in Romania taking care of dragons, Bill was recently promoted at Gringotts, Percy was at the Ministry in a different department, George was running the shop which had fast become a favorite, and Ginny was playing for the Holyhead Hurricanes. Ron, on the hand, had yet to find his 'passion' besides milking the Golden Trio bit whenever he could.

"I'm talking about the political clout." When she only narrowed her eyes, her attention on him as he liked it, he continued with his theatrics. "I think everyone knows just how you've been killing yourself trying to change the world," he said with acidic glee, "you ever wonder why you fight so hard with so little to show for it? Pure-bloods aren't just pure-bloods because of blood status, it's because they've got connections and ties with each other; everyone knows everyone. It's like an exclusive club, and the only way in is to either be born in it or marry into it. Wouldn't you like to actually change the world instead of just _trying_ to?"

He had a point, she begrudgingly allowed but she knew better than to let the bitterness of how well he knew her cloud her judgment. Ron had always excelled at pushing her buttons to get a rise out of her as evidenced by his smile of triumph at the flicker of emotion that flashed across her face.

Hermione couldn't have that.

She murmured gently, deceptively kind, "And what makes you think you're the only pure-blood I can choose from?" The bit of victory he had over her shriveled up his smile. "Did you think Cormac was a joke? I really did sleep with him and he's still trying for a repeat performance. But I've been meaning to see Viktor; he's coming over to play a friendly against your beloved Cannons. Then again, if that doesn't work out, I'm sure you know how Neville and I get on..." She let the words hang dangerously between them.

At his ashen complexion, she smiled, just to remind him that she had teeth too and she was willing to use them.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Her parents had gotten married straight out of school. It wasn't a big deal. They were both from financially stable backgrounds and they both had similar goals in life.

 _Their_ parents had dissuaded them, telling them to wait a few years (and what were a few years _really_?) But they didn't listen and Daniel and Emma Granger were married a week before they were to start at university.

It was perfect, it worked for them.

Though, her mother assured her that it wasn't an expectation they had for her.

They were happy enough that she had friends in Harry and Ron, but their hopes of a romance like theirs were decidedly less so. They liked her friends fine but, even with the usual "no one's good enough for our daughter" routine, Hermione suspected that they knew something she didn't.

When she told them about Ron's proposal a day after it happened, their reaction was similar to Neville's, "He did _what_?"

"Honestly, it's bad enough that it happened," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Don't make me tell you twice."

In the midst of watering one of the exotic (and deadly) plants that were scattered around his office, Neville defended, "You can't blame me, Hermione; the only reaction Ron's given you for the past few weeks was when Cormac peacocked around, talking about how he popped your cherry."

"You know I wasn't a virgin before him."

"Yeah, but you'd think you were considering the way Ron blew a gasket about it," he said, looking over his shoulder with a grin. "Plus, it suggests that _he_ never satisfied you."

"Trust me, I was pretending just as much with Cormac as I was with Ron. Fortunately, I enjoy scheduling my headaches," she allowed, sipping her coffee.

"Be honest, though," Neville laughed, "between the two, who was bigger?"

She looked thoughtful, balancing her mug in her hands. "Ron, but Cormac at least knew how to start the engine."

Neville made a _Really?_ face. "He wasn't an in-and-out kind of guy? That's unexpected."

"I think he was hoping that I'd divulge his prowess in the ladies' bathroom. Granted, I did mention it to Lavender when she asked if he was thoughtful in the bedding department," Hermione allowed, though her face pinched at what had constituted foreplay before the disrobing – a kiss that made her mouth feel like the rinse-cycle of a washing machine.

"Ah, look at the pair of you. Exchanging notes on lovers; never thought I'd see the day when you had _that_ in common."

"She's not entirely awful," she admitted, "though she's still a slag for sleeping with Ron when he was still with me." At least Lavender had apologized. Hermione even pitied her when she admitted she was still in love with the boy she'd dated in school.

It was a pity that Ron was more in love with Ron.

"Is that why you agreed to go with her to the benefactor's ball?"

"She encouraged my petty side," she sniffed.

Neville snickered. "It worked, though; Ron threw a considerable fit in the men's room about twenty minutes after you showed up. Harry had to stupefy him and take him home before he embarrassed himself."

She smirked. "I'm impressed he made it twenty minutes."

"Only because he was looking at the two of you like you'd make his dreams come true," her companion said, fluttering his lashes. "Via _ménage à trois_?"

"I wouldn't even give him the pleasure to watch."

"Lavender made that clear," he agreed, laughing now. "I think it was when you were trapped in that conversation with Cormac; I escorted her to the bar and Ron decided to bring up how good you'd all be together."

"And what did she say?" Hermione asked, intrigued because the woman had said nothing about the encounter. Granted, Lavender was more concerned about how much Hermione propped her up to Cormac as his next conquest; the joys of playing wing-woman.

"She told him he could barely keep up with one of you, let alone two." He paused. "And she may have also insinuated that you'd sooner invite a troll into your bed."

"She wasn't wrong -"

"And that the two of you had plans with Cormac," Neville added.

Her coffee almost made an undignified exit through her nose. "Merlin, I love her."

"Also another thing I was sure you'd never say," he admitted. "But back the original point, he proposed?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Neville. We've been through this, _twice_."

"I mean what for? It can't be a pride thing; you'd literally destroy the ground he stood on if he thought, for even a second, you'd take him back. You _were_ in love him and all, but…"

"I _wasn't_ in love with him," Hermione corrected slowly. "I _owed_ him. He offered me friendship in a difficult time and he was there throughout the war; choosing him was convenient." In a perfect world, perhaps it would have even worked out; maybe she wouldn't have talked his ear off about being more thoughtful or ambitious or having fights about him expecting her to be exactly like his mother; maybe he'd actually grow more mature, wouldn't let his temper run away with him and didn't let her bully him when he disagreed with her methods. In a perfect world, it could have worked out. But they weren't living in a perfect world. "Maybe I loved him, but I was not _in_ love with him."

"Suppose that's fair," Neville allowed. "But that still doesn't explain where he grew the balls to ask."

Sighing, she crossed her feet at the ankles, practically sinking against a nearby pillar as Neville turned back to focus on the herbs he was tending. He was endlessly patient as always as if she were a flower that he was waiting on to bloom.

Ron had dismissed him as a gardener.

Even if that _did_ make up almost eighty percent of Neville's job description at the Ministry, it was far more than that - everything from researching plants for medicinal and recreational use to petitioning for the protection of certain species that were useful to creatures and not wizards. Neville was clever and kind, and he lost so much in both wars but still remained to smile about it, his unerring positivity would be annoying if it hadn't gotten Hermione through more than enough days on the run.

Though, if she hadn't liked Neville before when they were in school, her esteem increased with Ron's belittlement of him.

If only Neville could be just a gardener, and she just a bookish workaholic, maybe Ron wouldn't be a washed-up Auror riding out Harry-Potter-Is-My-Best-Friend wherever he went, even if it was a ploy that worked.

She had to hand it to Ron, he knew his audience. "He had a point." Neville's brows rose in interest and when he said nothing further, she sighed again. "About the pure-blood elite club."

"You mean," he said slowly, "the club he isn't a part of? You do know his family is on the blood traitor spectrum, don't you?"

"When it mattered; the game is different now considering it's not socially acceptable to be bigoted; not in public anyway."

He hummed, "But the _crème de la crème_ …"

"Exactly," Hermione allowed. "They may look down their noses at the Weasleys but, at least with their name, I'd get through the door." It wasn't like she hadn't considered it before they had broken up. They could have lived in a perfect world. She had long ago accepted that she could never truly be herself, only play the role people expected her to; be the Hermione Granger they could put on a pedestal, listen to and accept.

Ron could be insufferable, but she knew how to deal with him: how to work around his ego, how to handle his messes, how to account for his deficiencies. But then he had to blow that plan to hell, fortunately before he grew a pair to propose to her at all.

The papers had been ugly enough when more than just Lavender stood up to say that Ron had bedded them behind Hermione's back. If she had been Mrs. Ronald Weasley, she had no doubt that the backlash would set her back so far she'd have to beg for mercy at the Prophet's feet and be forced to grin and bear the embarrassment of choosing a partner that couldn't even choose her.

"Doesn't mean you'll get to sit at the table," Neville reminded.

She smiled and tipped her head. But, no matter; there were always other options. Hermione learned to be adaptable. "Which is exactly why I told Ron that I'd marry you."

"You want to be my beard? Miss Granger, I'd be honored," Neville exclaimed, placing his hand over his heart, falling effortlessly into the role of the gullible and clueless schmuck that she remembered so well in school; non-threatening, innocent; harmless.

"Wouldn't be a good idea, though," he continued with some regret. "The Longbottoms may still be one of the Twenty-Eight, but how would it look on you? What would the public think if it gets out that the husband of our future Minister of Magic entertains male company?"

Sweet looking wallflowers were dangerous in their own way.

"Minister," she repeated, amused. "You have big dreams, Mister Longbottom."

"Who else could I possibly throw my hat in the ring for?"

"Perhaps I should just marry you after all."

"There are better options. Even you need to be properly bedded on a regular basis; it provides an enthusiasm that is sorely lacking in the department of Right-Hand Connoisseurs. For example," he continued casually, "with a glow like yours? I'd think you, Lavender, and Cormac actually _did_ make good on that arrangement."

 _Of course, he'd notice_ , Hermione thought with a flush as she flicked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "So I got laid last night."

He hummed again, lifting his brows suggestively. "And?"

"What?" she stressed, "Are you expecting me to dunk my head in holy water?"

"Why," he probed a devilish twinkle in his eye. "How much did you sin, my child?"

She shook her head, chuckling. "If there was anything wrong in the world with that, I don't ever want to be right."

"Well, you know the lay was good when Hermione Granger doesn't want to be right." He whistled in appreciation. "Am I going to find out who this man is?"

"Draco."

Neville's brows rose but no accusation coloured his tone. "Malfoy?"

"We know another Draco?" she countered, and he allowed with a tilt of his head that they didn't.

"It makes sense though, he eye-fucks you a lot."

She gaped. He couldn't – they hadn't spoken in – what? "He does not."

"Yeah, he does; all the way through Hogwarts, on the battlefield, and whenever you guys happen to occupy the same courtrooms," he said with a snort, tone still nonchalant, like he was talking about the weather or mentioning that one of his plants had tried to swallow Rita Skeeter whole (which while true, did not get the chance to digest the bint).

"What the hell, Neville?"

"What? I thought you knew!"

She gave Neville a look, causing his hands to shoot up in defense. "Fine," he admitted, "I figured you wouldn't know what to do with the information and, since you didn't know period, I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable. It was kind of hot, anyway, like he wanted to…" To her horror, he started using hand gestures and accenting it with hip thrusts.

She rolled her eyes. "You're terrible, and I hate you."

"No, you don't," he laughed, "especially since I have the answer to your Ron problem."

"I have a Ron problem?"

"A somehow-he-has-a-point Ron problem," he clarified. "Despite your sheer brilliance, Hermione Jean Granger, you are still Muggle-born. An outsider. A fact that would be fine and dandy if political change didn't require the support of the pure-blood elite."

"And," she continued, "as you said, I can't just marry anyone – they'd be under a microscope as my husband. Anything he does would reflect on me. Ron would be the safe choice."

"Safe, as in you'd get in, but you'd be standing by the door alongside a disapproving portrait of someone's prejudiced pure-blood relative, which means you need to marry high – like Sacred Twenty-Eight high – and _not_ on the blood traitor spectrum," he added, "which leaves former Death Eaters and the ambiguous neutrals."

"Or I could just charge in alone?" The thought was tempting, but also held a very steep chance of succeeding; Neville was as honest as always:

"Yes, I'm sure those archaic old men would love to hand over the reins to a modern Muggle-born woman. Your aim is change and, because we live in a democracy, change is voted in by popular demand. You, Hermione, have never been the popular type."

Not a surprise. She was a puppet that danced around and existed on their stage because she had to – she was the proof that _both_ wars achieved their aims; that death and destruction were paid in full with blood and demons aplenty so Muggle-borns could exist in their world. Hermione didn't need to be liked to succeed as propaganda. Still, she dryly interjected, "Remind me never to go to you for pep-talks, yeah?"

Neville valiantly continued on, "Which means you need someone so fucking pure that they're not only sitting at the table, they _own_ the fucking table."

She clicked her tongue. That was a possibility. Granted, she hadn't thought about him too much in regards to her ambitions, Ron was suitable for so long that she hadn't seriously thought of others, but the more she mused on it, the more the idea had taken root in her mind. Would it possible to have it all? "What could I possibly offer him in return?"

"Oh," he whined, "don't make me do all the work. You know how cranky I get when I'm tired."

.

Hermione was a combination of impulsive and deliberate, a fact that Draco could appreciate.

She was all business despite the friendly, almost cajoling, note she had sent through Blaise that she was coming to see him.

Regardless of his response, she used the portkey to get back into his building; clever witch.

Then again, he'd made sure it was still activated for her to get in so, technically, she was doing what he had planned. When she entered, the look on her face said that she knew exactly that.

Instead of looking guarded, walking into as it were – the dragon's den, Hermione enquired, "Did I play that part right?" Of course, she'd figure it out.

"That you would come back?" he asked, setting aside his paperwork and leaning back in his chair. "Rather perfectly, down to the day and the hour."

"I do like to get things perfect," she informed him primly, removing her outer robes and tossing them onto the nearest empty chair. He admired what lay beneath – a soft white blouse, with a neat bow caressing her slender neck, and a grey figure-hugging pencil skirt that ended a few inches above her knee; she was practical, professional, and deceptively prudish.

"Did you already know about this law? I'm sure Zabini must have told you."

"It might have come up."

Her lips thinned for an instant, the reminder of Ron's declaration about connections and ties whispering impatiently in her ear as she approached his desk. "Then, I suppose you know why I'm here. Although I imagine you planned that too?"

"No, actually," he replied, "the party that brought you here originally? Down to a T. The law, however, was not up for my consideration."

"Why is that?" She knew why. He highly doubted she ever approached a situation ill-prepared but he got a thrill at how well she played the innocent – all big brown eyes and luscious lips protruding slightly in a pout.

"I was on the side that lost. Granted, I never really got the chance to choose but, nevertheless, I played the hand I was dealt and got out with the chips I could. It was a loss but the damage I incurred was minimal compared to others. Why would I risk playing again?"

"Because," she dragged out, "you didn't have me playing with you. Besides, if it really wasn't up for your consideration, why would you have planned me coming to see you again at all?"

"What can I say? I'm an excellent shag."

"I'm flattered that you find me worthy enough to entertain a second time. But, you planned that ball far too elaborately to just want sex from me."

Pushing his chair back to marvel at her, he smirked. "You think you're so clever."

"I am," she replied, walking around the desk towards him. She rested her hands on the armrests of his chair and leaned towards him. "I'm brilliant."

Draco clicked his tongue, his lips still raised at the corners in a semblance of a smile. "I've gotten _some_ of my fortune back; nothing the Ministry could give me would be worth the trouble of coming back into society."

"It's not about what the Ministry can do; it's about what you can do." He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She readily obliged. "You and yours chose wrong and I won't apologize for winning. But, as far as progress goes, your contributions are some of the few that _actually_ change things. The Ministry is more than happy to prop me up as their sterling example of We-Won-The-War-Against-Blood-Purists and then do nothing further about the things that _actually_ caused the problems in the first place."

She smiled down at him, both admiring and knowing at once. "The changes for the education system in Hogwarts? Helping the children left behind during the war?" It was so plain to see how much he wanted to change, how much he wanted to fix the world that he helped break. "The marriage law is good for treating at least some of the issues on the ground but you're tackling it on a larger scale; a scale that impacts far more than what can be hoped for within a single household."

"Call it redemption; call it being a good loser," Draco conceded graciously, conscious of the way their lips were just barely brushing.

"You don't lose, Draco," Hermione murmured, her lips ghosting past his, "at least not on purpose."

"No."

"You need my help as much as I need yours."

"What do I need from you?"

Noses brushing, her eyes wandered down in suggestion at the obvious tent in his pants. "The same thing I need from you, only I want to be on the other side." She paused, adding seriously, "I want to make sure the laws happen, to ensure that things actually change."

"I'm not so angelic," he reminded her, keeping perfectly still as Hermione's fingers tugged at the zipper of his pants, making quick work of releasing his cock from its material prison. "They think I'm a monster; they'll think I cursed you." He paused to swallow as her fingers caressed him. "You want a hero and, despite what you think, I'm not one."

"Despite what _you_ _want everyone else_ to think," she corrected, seeing right through him as easily as if he confessed his thoughts to her daily, the reminder of such a time tore him up. _The cabinet; the ring; Dumbledore._

"You have a legacy already," he reminded. "You needn't taint it with me."

She laughed humorlessly. "Ah yes, my _legacy_. My role in the Golden Trio; the boy-hero that was raised as a Muggle, the pure-blood traitor, and the Muggle-born witch; we're the Ministry's wet dream to remind everyone how _far we've come_."

Admiring the structure of him as one would a sculpted piece of art Hermione decided that _yes,_ some god really did create Draco Malfoy to tempt sin and who was she but a human that was tempted?

"It would be easier, wouldn't it? To play along and pretend I'm happy with how it looks on the surface?" She traced his leaking tip with her thumb as she spoke. "They made me bleed and, now that they find my blood convenient, they'll keep cutting me."

"Ask Potter... Weasley, I'm sure they'll be more than happy to play hero again," he said, an edge to his voice that almost begged her not to ask this of him, as if he were happy to be their victim in all of this whilst still trying to pull them through the dumpster fire that was their society.

"They don't want to be heroes anymore," she murmured, tracing her tongue along the smooth skin, making him gasp. _Oh_ , how beautiful that sound was but the hint of euphoria was tarnished by the reminder of her friends with their perfect lives; a family for orphaned Harry and a hero's parade every day of the week for Ron. "They got what they wanted, they got their legacy."

He forced a laugh. "You're insatiable, aren't you? You're Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Our Age, war heroine, Ministry official. They're on their knees for you." It's why he hadn't tried to get her back, not when she'd come so far – but he'd heard about McLaggen, growled to himself how none of them deserved her – and he had to try, even if he could only have her for one night, knowing what she knew now.

"But they're not," she whispered, the brown of her eyes nothing but a halo around the black of her pupils. "They're waiting to cut me down with the broken pieces they turned me into." Hermione was always under their thumb, they'd groomed her by giving her Harry and Ron – giving her friends – and then used her loyalty and famed brilliance to keep the heroes standing: The Boy Who Lived that was promised to slay the villain, and the pure-blood wizard that would lay his life on the line to make it happen.

The three of them were the perfect propaganda, and after? After it ended, the Ministry could use them still, and use her they did.

"Well then, there's only one thing for that," he soothed, reaching over to cup her face in his palm, sliding his thumb across her lips, and hissing as she took the digit in her mouth. "Take your heroes, Granger," he continued, "and stick to your golden legacy."

Eventually, she'd crack it.

Eventually, she'd get them all to stand in line. It was within her grasp, within her capabilities; Gryffindor or not, she had the ambition, the smarts; the potential. She could do whatever she wanted, and he – he would atone where he could and try and be worthy of it.

"What if I don't want my legacy? What if I still want more? What if," she trailed, nipping the appendage resting against her lips, "I want you?"

"Me," he repeated, almost amused, "or my connections? My last name?"

"Your cock?" she enquired, brows raised mischievously.

"You'll have to do more than get on your knees to make them accept me," he cautioned, even as his eyes burned into hers in perfect sync to the fingers she curled around the length of him.

"The only person I'm getting on my knees for is you." Her luscious red lips wrapped around him, his grip on the armrest a vice, as she licked his length with excruciating slowness. The hand he cupped her face with just moments before came to rest at the nape of her neck.

Draco seriously doubted it was Hermione's first time giving head - her sheer skill at the task was proof to that - but he was confident she had never given as enthusiastically as she did now. If she did, then Weasley was even more brain-dead than he thought.

She took his whole head in her mouth. His grip tightened around her neck as he swelled to twice the size within the moist heat behind her cupid's bow lips.

Hermione varied her speed and pressure, relying on Draco's breathing and moans to judge what he liked best. He, on the other hand, was struggling to hold out for as long as he could. Looking down on her infamous head of curls, now free from her conservative bun, he gripped her hair in both hands as he guided her forward and back along his length. He could hardly control himself as he slid in and out of her torturous mouth. Her own moans and breaths only served to fan his lust.

Just then one of her hands cupped his balls, introducing a perfect balance of timid and daring as she worked his shaft up and down, making his legs tremble with every deft flick of her wrist.

" _Fuck."_

She hummed approvingly, the vibration travelling up and down his thighs as she worked him with dedication and purpose, coaxing him with promises of ruin and salvation with every brush of her tongue, every skillful movement of her hands.

In that moment, Draco knew, with absolute certainty, that the saying was true; there wasn't a spell this witch couldn't do.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

"How would you like this to go then, Granger?"

The once pristine pencil skirt was hitched up around Hermione's hips, exposing her bare legs. Her brown curls, practically black under the dimmed lighting in his office, tumbled down her back in rolling waves, while the charmed lipstick on her slightly bruised lips were still perfect, as if in complete denial as to where they had been moments before.

She tilted her head. "So you agree with my proposal?"

Draco raised a brow, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "I had an option to refuse?"

"Of course," she dismissed, leaning back slightly on his desk amongst the forgotten bits of paperwork, and smiled at him. "Choice is king; I'd never force someone to do something they don't want to."

"And suppose...I did refuse?"

She shrugged, dark hair spilling over the front of her white blouse. "I have other options, but you seemed like my best fit."

Quirking an eyebrow, he leaned forward to capture her lips with his. He sucked almost thoughtfully, tasting a hint of himself on the sensitive skin before dragging his teeth against it as he pulled away. She went to follow, barely swallowing the moan of disapproval at his retreat.

"Best fit, hmm?"

Leaning towards him now, her voice low, she divulged, "You're the closest thing to pure-blood royalty." He'd always told her back then that that was who he was on the scale of social standing; how far his star could fall.

"Yes," he agreed with a hint of sarcasm, "the exiled prince."

"Prince, nonetheless," she remarked, brows lifting, "and who am I but a Muggle-born peasant?"

"The Champion for the Common People?" He waved his hand as if highlighting a headline, the conversation a reminder of their argument so many years ago about her feeble attempts at creature reform with S.P.E.W. and his insistence that slavery was as much a tradition as it was an institution. Clearly, one of them had to be wrong and Hermione had two on him.

"The common people don't know me. To be honest, they wouldn't know their heads from their arses if someone didn't tell them which to shit out of," she added, with a hint of bitterness. It wasn't entirely their faults but people were so swayed by what the media owned government wanted them to believe that it gave her a headache. It seemed no one in Magical Britain had ever heard of a conflict of interest. "Fortunately, I _do_ have the reputation of being the Brightest Witch of Our Age."

"And clearly, she'd know better."

"Clearly."

"Who else would you have picked, hmm? Clearly, you're the brains of this operation," he mused, leaning back again just as she did. The faint light from the setting sun peeked in through the curtains just then, separating them for a moment. "Any decent pure-blood would do."

"Not true. I need someone – just as clever – who wants the same things I do," she said firmly. It was a decision that didn't take long for Hermione to make once she had decided on him.

She'd already seen the result of choosing someone like Ron to hedge her future on; drawn into the role of the forgotten woman to another attempting to be a red one; no, it wouldn't do for her plans to have that reputation, and she couldn't risk it happening again.

If she could somehow create the perfect partner in crime, as it were, it would be someone with the same goals; someone not averse to working in the grey and someone willing to play the game with her at all times.

Draco, for all his undercover charity work and known reputation as a Death Eater, was perfect. Even without the added benefit of reclaiming what they had put aside for the sake of their sanities at the time.

"Mindless puppets are easier to control and predict. Freewill is bothersome," he observed. Free will made mistakes; chose the wrong course of action; bit into that poisoned apple. The free will of their pawns led to the downfalls of Voldemort _and_ Dumbledore; their grand schemes ultimately destroyed by their failure in grooming their pawns for sacrifice; it was why Hermione had originally stayed with Ron but she knew how well that turned out.

It was for their betterment, in the end.

Harry hadn't used the resurrection stone to bring back Dumbledore, instead, he'd brought himself back, and Draco had risked life and limb to get Harry a wand and win the Battle of Hogwarts - ultimately defeating Voldemort.

"Perhaps, but one can't rely on a single person or organization to think for them. Progress isn't made that way, dictatorship is."

In the end it had worked out - Magical Britain had avoided dictatorship on either side, but the future both wizards left behind, as a result of their deaths, was a fragile state that lacked a figure prominent enough to fill the void they had left; to create a vision that would dictate the future of their society.

What remained of their legacy, thanks to them, was the limbo that they existed in now.

"Wouldn't that be easier?"

She allowed, "Only for someone without imagination."

He smirked. "That arrogance will tank everything."

"Which is why I need you," Hermione urged, the last wink of the sun catching that dangerously determined glint in her eyes. "I may have grown up in this world but you were _raised_ in it. You know _exactly_ how the wizarding community functions; how it reacts when pricked; how it responds when threatened... _all_ the ways it can unravel. _You would know_."

"If I knew, don't you think I would have done something about it for my own benefit?"

"You were out of moves, Draco. You didn't have Snape's double-agent status to manipulate in your favor, and you don't have enough emotional pull with McGonagall to get her to speak kindly of you. All you had was your youth to absolve you." And he used it well. The recon she did on him spoke highly of his ability to adapt, survive, and thrive in the shadows – something she genuinely wasn't sure he was capable of being, considering the spoilt rich boy she knew in school.

From business dealings done in back rooms to legitimate claims to repossess the Black and Malfoy vaults, the media coverage that labeled him a money-grabbing war criminal - when he successfully challenged the Wizengamot practically single-handed - was excessive.

Draco was correct: people _would_ refer to him as a monster even as an orphaned seventeen-year-old; despite squaring up to the government that sent children to fight their war; he would always be seen as the bad guy.

He bared his teeth in a smirk; vaguely impressed at the extent of her knowledge of him but bitter that she knew it at all. "What makes my role different?"

"I'm in play, you use me." When he only raised a brow, she explained, "You were out of moves because you had no one to vouch for you, now you do. What's better is that I don't want anything from you but your support. I have no malicious intent towards you, and you have nothing to fear from me banking on any favors you want from my end."

"Right now, you mean."

Hermione blinked as if the thought hadn't occurred to her, and it actually made him ill to think it hadn't; that, despite her scheming, there was still a part of her that believed in the good in people; the good in him.

"I won't turn on you." _You know I won't_ , she wanted to add, but swallowed it down because... _does he?_ Instead, she repeated firmly, "I won't."

"Everyone does at some point."

"Well, I'm not going to. That, at least, I can promise you," she said softly. "We want the same things, you and I, and we'll get it."

When he could offer her nothing more than that look that always broke her heart, something between hope and despair that she knew so intimately that she had to breathe through the terror she could feel trembling beneath her skin of _losing you again, leaving you again – oh God, don't take him –_

"You want to know why I won't keep my legacy?"

His silence was prompting enough.

"It's the same reason I choose to follow Harry even when I had my suspicions about Dumbledore – because that was the role given to me." She sighed. "I thought, for the past few years when the war ended, that everything was wrong. _Everything_. Not just because I didn't think I'd make it out alive, but that I did. I did, and it wasn't fair."

He knew the feeling intimately and his grip tightened around hers.

"Dean died. We were on the same team; we went on missions together nearly all the time. One night I didn't go with them and...and they died. The only reason I didn't go that day was because I was told 'Harry needs you'. I waited around like an idiot for the message to come in; for Harry to come in, bloody and broken, and _need me_." And wasn't that just so like her? Always wanting to help, always wanting to be needed; _goody-goody Granger._

Hermione laughed mirthlessly at that thought.

"Little did I know, it was because they were using my team as a sacrifice so someone else could escape, so someone else could live, and H-Harry...Harry didn't even know," her voice cracked suddenly and Draco had a suspicion that Potter still didn't.

"The only reason I wasn't with them that day was because Harry needed me in an abstract sense. Losing Sirius had already pushed him to the edge, he couldn't lose anyone else," she continued quietly, the walls of ice around her heart cracking even as she closed her eyes tightly to hold them together through sheer force. "I was that 'anyone else'."

He closed the distance between them again, tugging her off his desk and into his lap. His hand guided her head to nestle under his chin before he wrapped his arms firmly around her. His solid hold absorbed the hiccup that burst from her chest and she swallowed hard against the burning in her throat.

"I suppose that's one thing Potter did right. I'd thank him if I didn't still want to punch him."

She chuckled despite herself, brushing away a stray tear and pulling away slightly so they could see one another. "A lot of Muggle-borns didn't get out of that war but, just because they didn't, doesn't mean there aren't more coming to take their place. I don't want to give the Ministry the chance to do that. They've done next to nothing themselves to rectify the mistakes of the past without you telling them otherwise so, from where I'm sitting, you're better for us than the Ministry could ever pretend to be. We need you." She paused before continuing resolutely, "I need you."

Draco dearly wanted to squish that bit of hope fluttering incessantly in his chest, but all he could do was take a sharp inhale through his nose. "You have a way, Granger, of making anyone sound like a hero."

"It's easier when they actually are one."

He cleared his throat. "What are your plans for this? Really...be honest with me. Is it world domination? Gunning for the spot as Minister?"

"What is it with me and being Minister? You're starting to sound like Neville."

"It would suit you," he mused, "you do love to boss everyone around; why not a constituent?"

"Because there's no privacy to be had as Minister," she explained, "not to mention, it isn't exactly the Minister that runs the show."

"Granger," he began, with a sigh, "you were truly put in the wrong house as a child; it really is an injustice."

"Too cunning for a Gryffindor?" she asked, innocently.

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but Malfoys are always in Slytherin."

Her lips quirked in amusement; whatever she needed to prove to him, whatever she tried to make him see, she had, and she breathed a sigh of relief and repeated, "So you accept my proposal?"

"Trophy husband to the Brightest Witch of Our Age?" he asked, pausing to feign contemplation. "I can survive the humiliation, I'm sure."

.

Draco was sitting in the far left-hand corner of the courtroom as discussion resumed on the Werewolf Registration Act.

Her opponents were predictable in the angle they choose to work and his girl was dismantling it piece by piece with reticence. They'd never know how furious it actually made her, how much she wanted to rip into them and set fire to the very platforms they lorded over her from.

The Werewolf Registration Act was not unlike the Muggle-born Protection Initiative that was created just after the war. The pure-bloods and half-bloods, still clinging to their faulty sense of purity, had emphasized the need for protection against the muggle world as incidents where magic had run amok raised suspicion.

The Muggle-borns, newly entering the wizarding world or already established, needed to be tracked and watched; their muggle ties needed surveillance and, if necessary, to be severed.

It was a pointless argument to make when it was magic and the war itself that caused the danger to the Statute of Secrecy, Hermione had argued.

Draco recalled that day with vivid clarity – there was talk that her parents, memory modified and smuggled overseas, could not be retrieved. Hermione hadn't been able to undo the charm and the Ministry refused to aid her.

Though magic had rid her of the bandages, the cuts and bruises, her eyes were so balefully haunted that he almost choked at the sight of them. He was reminded, vividly, of the way she stared at him that day on the floor of the ballroom, months before the end of the war; mutilated and tossed aside like a toy that was no longer interesting.

But there she was, radiating righteous fury; a storm contained in skin; she was practically trembling at the stand, her rage like a bubbling cauldron. _"All you're doing is taking advantage of the fear from this war to push your own agenda. I could tell you how wrong it is to have your privacy invaded upon by a society that you didn't even know you were a part of. To have to risk not being able to see your child or your family ever again based on a decision made by a government lacking in resources and with time to fully think of the consequences faced by either end of the spectrum. I could expound on all the ways that it could go wrong, about how much it will hurt people. I could tell you all of that, but you won't care."_

She took a breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly; the calm before the detonation, the potion within simmering at the ready.

" _So let me speak in a language you understand: This initiative will bankrupt you, all of you. Even with the pilfering of gold from the funds of Death Eaters. Even you, with your summer homes in Vienna and Crete, wouldn't be able to escape it because the only way the Ministry would ever be able to afford this is by taxing every wizard in the United Kingdom. You wouldn't be able to hide from it because the Ministry can't afford to look incompetent again. Not after taking such a monumental breach of privacy in the name of safety. Not after the incompetence of the previous establishment in letting this war get as far is it did. The Ministry can't afford it in any currency, and neither can you."_

Despite everything he had known about her in Hogwarts, her penchant for emotional tirades, acts of naivety despite knowing better, and the urging for people to listen to their innate goodness, Hermione had surprised him.

Her opponents then had floundered for a rebuttal and, in the end, she had won.

They knew better this time. They were still doomed to lose, Draco thought with a smirk, but they knew better this time.

Hermione resumed her seat and it was announced that the next discussion would take place on a date to be announced by Owl. By the mutters of the Pro-Registration side, this didn't please them but Hermione was cool as can be. She shook hands with them, nodding her head politely at their inquiries. At the closely offered word by one of the counselors, Draco narrowed his eyes. Her icy smile was all he needed to know that the words exchanged were not of the "gracious loser" variety.

"I sincerely hope you're not threatening our beloved war heroine, Flint."

The startled glance, and the slightly widened eyes, passed by in a flicker before Marcus Flint remembered to hide it. To his left, his entourage of three straightened.

"Malfoy, what in the devil are you doing here?"

"Seemed important that I was," he replied, with a shrug. "My cousin's part werewolf and a registry could have consequences, you understand."

The sneer didn't leave, but Draco could see the flash of ' _oh shit, how did we forget that_ ' in the other man's eyes.

Social pariah or not, reputation was a currency one could always count on.

Flint may not have been Marked, but everyone knew what Draco had had to go through to be the youngest Death Eater enlisted (or at least had a pretty good idea of what was required). No one would want to get on the wrong side of _that_ especially after his mantle had been tested, both during the war and after it. Only someone touched by the devil could be allowed to commit as many crimes as he did and _still_ walk out richer than anyone after having lost.

"I didn't know you took responsibility for the kid," was the only thing Flint could mutter.

"I don't, really." Tonks had been very clear who would take care of her only child in the event of her death and her maternal cousin was definitely not it. "But Teddy's still family and we're so few, the Blacks and the Malfoys," Draco lamented. When Flint could only clench his jaw in reply, he continued in a way that was both careless and threatening; one hand in a greeting, the other with a wand at his opponent's chest, "We need to watch out for one another."

Behind the other man, one of the solicitors shifted uncomfortably.

Being pure-blood was more than just blood purity, despite the anti-rhetoric; to be a pure-blood meant to honour to the traditions and customs held dear to one's line – loyalty to the death and, above all else, family. No one threatened a pure-blood's family.

"Now," Draco said, magnanimously. "I don't know which side to go with. Really, you both make excellent arguments, I'd hate for it to be tarnished by rumors of intimidation, wouldn't you?"

There was a general paling of complexion, and another mutter, "Of course. I meant no disrespect."

"See that it stays that way."

There was a quick bob of the head in acknowledgment and, as soon as Draco's eyes shifted from Flint's to Hermione, the opposing solicitors turned to leave.

"I could have handled that -" she began to argue.

"I know, but I've never liked Flint's smug face. I must say it looks better when it's terrified."

She rolled her eyes as she began to gather her papers. "If that's all you need, Malfoy."

"A thank-you would be nice," he retorted.

"Pity you won't get one from me," she said, documents gathered and binder pressed against her chest, as she turned to him. "I told you, I could have handled it,"

"And what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you 'handle it', hmm?"

"The kind that is trying desperately to get my attention?"

"You wouldn't be wrong, then."

Her serious expression waned and she had to suppress a smile. "You're terrible at this."

"I admit I expected a warmer reception." He added quietly, "Or is that only reserved for when one of us naked?"

"I thought we agreed that we'd take this slowly?" she whispered, brows raised in meaning.

"I'm sure it'll be more efficient if I bend you over this table -"

"Draco!"

"See, you already know what to say."

Hermione shook her head and rolled her eyes, sidestepping him. "Goodbye, Malfoy."

"You're making me work for this, aren't you?"

Only the sound of her shoes clicking out the courtroom answered him but, if she thought the conversation was over, she had another thing coming.

She just didn't expect it to be her.

.

Half the Ministry was probably all huddled outside her office, eavesdropping on what they hoped would be a colossal argument of epic proportions considering Draco had just barged into her office, demanding to speak to her about her stance on the Werewolf Registration Act.

She had no idea he even knew what it was, let alone was invested in it, and the points he raised infuriated her.

Of course, she knew that more research was required to aid wizards suffering from lycanthropy but surely they would be able to study it from willing volunteers instead of essentially forcing sufferers to act as guinea pigs for experimental treatments!

Hermione was close to ripping him a new one when Draco turned to find everyone in the office staring at them. He then had the gall to demand a private audience which Hermione had no choice but to accept. She fought the urge to stamp her feet as he followed her, quickly casting a silencing charm as he entered.

She waited impatiently for him to say something as he closed the door but, instead, he strode over to her, framing her face in his hands, and kissed her passionately without uttering a single word.

Flustered and furious, Hermione could only think to kiss him back. She grabbed at the front of his robes in retribution until he had her hoisted up against the wall, his body keeping hers suspended as all his edges pressed against all her curves.

Vaguely, she heard a frame fall.

One of her arms came over his shoulders for support as her legs wound around his hips. He stepped closer between her legs; their bodies slotting, almost mockingly, together. She groaned as he brushed his already-hardened length against the heat soaking through her knickers.

Draco's lips left hers as he lowered himself a little to get rid of the obstruction; impatient fingers tugging at the sensible white button-up shirt she had chosen for work today; his teeth chasing after it, scraping against the column of her neck as he exposed it. His fingers dipped lower until they brushed against the waistband of her pantsuit, the button of it coaxed from its hole with a tug.

"Pants, really?" he demanded through his teeth.

"If I knew I was going to get accosted in my office, I'd have picked something sensible for an afternoon romp," she retorted, her shallow breath turning into a gasp as he tugged her pants off her hips, rolling her knickers along with it. The cool air of the room making her squirm as the length of him ghosted past her once more. "What happened to taking it slow?"

"You wanted it slow," he quipped, "I wanted you on the desk."

"Not a desk."

He cast a brief glance to the offending piece of furniture a few feet away, and growled, "Too far."

Before she could reply, he branded his hands against her hips and sunk to his knees; his lips instantly on hers.

They were as pink and panting as he hoped and, Merlin; there was some kind of divinity to be found in it. It was his own brand of addiction; every lap of his tongue and suck of those pouting lips.

Hermione gasped; she squirmed and writhed; she demanded more; she pleaded for more; his name a mantra with every drawn-out whimper.

Grasping her hips to keep her steady, he took all he could. One hand traced the delicious dip of her arse further until he was opening her up from behind. She thrust her hips against the wall as his hand completed the journey to the welcoming softness of her silken heat. How often had he actually thought of having her like this since they had begun? Countless, he was sure.

She wanted to tear her clothes off from the heat rising within her, setting every nerve ending on fire as he too set her alight with every skillful thrust of fingers and tongue; every promise he uttered between her thighs.

She was overheating; wearing too much, feeling too much; they had to stop before she –

Her fingers were tangled in his hair, slightly damp from their activity, as he continued to dive into her, uncaring for the way she tugged almost painfully at his platinum locks.

Draco's eyes were closed, lashes practically translucent against the marble paleness of his face.

He could well have been a statue if his fingers didn't know just the right rhythm to play inside her as they thrummed along the pulsing of her core, one melody after another in a skillful concerto. If his tongue wasn't spelling her name –

H – E – R – M- I –

There were stars blinking at her from behind closed lids –

M – A – L – F – O – O – _O –_ _O – O –_

She could taste herself on him as he swallowed the sound of her shattering moans; he soothed her bare arse with cool fingers and full palms, lovingly stroking the heated flesh from her irate movements earlier on, as he nudged her slowly back to a semblance of rational thought. He helped her to her feet, her legs still shaking as she leaned on the wall for support.

"I heard Weasley proposed to you in here," he eventually said, stroking her hair back now as they rested their foreheads against one another.

Still blinking back stars, she stuttered out, "H-how did you…? Who told you that?"

"Doesn't matter," Draco dismissed, "only that I hope I erased the memory of it for you."

"You won't if you talk about it," she retorted.

He tsked, "I suppose, I need a do-over then."

"I suppose you do," she mused lightly, thinking to herself that, if she had to ever see a man on his knees before her, she much preferred it to be him.

.

It took an hour for them to emerge and everyone pretended that they weren't waiting on _something_ to have happened. It wasn't every day that Draco was seen out in public, let alone in the Ministry. He wasn't welcomed by most of respectable society but even less so at the government offices. He had his spies; people were sure, so he had no reason to come unless it was important.

But to see Hermione, of all people?

The rumor mill had been on overdrive since the pair of them had walked in, obviously irritated with one another, which stopped everyone from working in their tracks.

There was the reminder that they weren't friends in school, they fought on different sides of the war, not to mention Hermione had been tortured in Malfoy's house; they had no reason to like each other, no reason to interact.

It was definitely odd and there was a silent consensus to Floo-call Harry, or even Ron, immediately to find out what was happening.

But no one had, as of yet, although her best friends were sure to find out eventually. It was the biggest thing to happen to Hermione since Cormac!

Fewer people were huddled at her door than in the beginning, but extendable ears were in full use.

Unfortunately, it seemed one of them had cast a silencing charm and so nothing new could be reported on the matter until their reappearance.

To everyone's surprise, both parted on friendlier terms and, towards the end of the day, a bouquet of white violets arrived for Hermione.

A rather brave, and extremely nosy, secretary snuck a peek at the card within and shared the news: The most notable Death Eater, besides Voldemort himself, had just asked Hermione to dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

"Oh, those are lovely, dear. Did your gentleman give you that?" Joyce asked as she came to replace the pot of tea on the table.

"Something like that," Hermione said, having to bite her tongue before she could tack on 'mum' to the end of her sentence because – she wasn't – not really.

Raising her brows a little, Joyce probed in an all too familiar fashion, "Come on then, you can't just leave me with that!" When Hermione's lips parted to dissuade her – the woman had a whole restaurant to look after, surely she couldn't spare the time – but she did, taking the empty seat in front of her and smiling earnestly.

Hermione's fingers twitched with the suppressed impulse to take her hand, but – they were friendly but they weren't that close and it would be odd, wouldn't it; holding hands with the lady that runs a restaurant you happen to frequent in a town and country you aren't even from?

"Come on, Helena, you can dish with me. I may be an old lady but I can appreciate modern romance! Why Lucas and I have been together since school and -" _I know, you've told me this story a dozen times, except his name is Daniel, and your name isn't Joyce, and you don't run a restaurant, and I'm your daughter._ "Let me live vicariously through you!"

 _I buried you though, a memory of you anyway – of you and dad – you always did want to move to Australia, and I put flowers all over the house because it reminded me of you – And I'm so sorry I sent you away – I'm so sorry I mourned you when you were alive._

"His name is Drake," Hermione found herself saying, the fake name slipping easily off her tongue because she was used to bending the truth with Joyce, used to calling Draco by that name because he hated it – the thought made her smile a little. "We went to school together."

"Oh, that's lovely! Were you two close?"

"Like a cat and a snake."

"So not at all?" her mother asked, laughing behind her hand before exclaiming, "Don't tell me he just now realized his feelings for you! He isn't married or anything, is he?" she added in a scandalized whisper.

"No, no; perfectly single." No one wanted to go near the ruined Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy. Its heir had, after all, been accused of being a money grabbing war criminal despite the fact that it was, indeed, his own family's money he had reclaimed. Fortune and last name aside, no one wanted to take a chance on being attached to the history of the family or be forced to visit the cursed ancestral mansion.

The game had changed, and any wizard with an iota of hope of climbing the social ladder and gaining power would never risk it on the social poison that was Draco Malfoy.

Funny, how different the tune would be if – _when_ – they learned the truth.

"So then," Joyce prompted, and Hermione shook her head and smiled, returning to the conversation at hand.

"We reconnected in court one day and got into an argument while we were at it." She still couldn't believe he had tricked her, getting her all worked up for nothing. Well, not nothing – he claimed, as her intellectual equal he just wanted to ensure all her bases were covered. The arse.

"And you enjoyed it," her mother noted with a wiggle of her brows, and Hermione had to laugh at the absurdity of it.

"I did, I – we always were pretty heated in school, always arguing about things but not really arguing – just -"

"Debating," she supplied with a chuckle. "You're a smart woman, dear, it comes with the territory. You need someone who's going to challenge you and give you a new perspective; trust me, I know how that goes!"

"I suppose, everyone in school was about a hundred percent sure we hated one another, and I think for a while we both believed it too."

"Oh! So you two have had a thing before?"

She blushed – Merlin, she couldn't even tell her mother about her first kiss and now – "It was a lust thing, we were two teenagers who happened to be in each other's faces most of the time and it just – happened."

Joyce hummed, and then laughed as Hermione took a gulp of tea blaming the bright redness of her cheeks on the heat from her Earl Grey. "And did it keep happening?"

"For a while," she allowed, "it was a secret thing though, we were at boarding school together and everyone knew everyone's business – I know his parents wouldn't have been happy if they heard about it and it wasn't like we wanted people to know then."

Definitely not; Hermione had just been humiliated in front of the entire school; showing up on Viktor Krum's arm and then leaving like Cinderella at half-past twelve – no carriage or enchanted dress to keep her dignity as she wept on the staircase over stupid Ronald Weasley. Draco hadn't attended the Yule Ball and was only passing by – likely to cause trouble, Harry had said – and instead, found her.

It wasn't meant to be anything more than a moment of human decency and cordiality between two enemies, and yet –

"Anyway, eventually we mutually broke it off -" _"You're going to get hurt!"; "I already am!"_ "- and that was that."

"But now?"

"Now?" she repeated, clearing her throat. "I live in a town where a lot of my schoolmates are, and Drake's fallen a bit from grace – got caught up in a bad crowd - and here I am, successful career woman, recently cheated on, and apparently the timing could not be better," she finished with a sardonic grin and another shake of her head. "I know he isn't in a bad crowd anymore, but he might still be in a bad space – I actually don't doubt that he is – but, Drake's good, he's _so good_."

"As a person or…"

"Joyce," she exclaimed, turning bright red. Oh, dear God.

Her mother chuckled. "I just want to know all the details; you can't blame an old woman!"

"Anyway!" Hermione continued with a dramatic roll of her eyes, "After we argued, we got into mutual ground -" _which just happened to involve us being naked_ "- and then he left. At the end of the day, my secretary let me know that a package arrived from me earlier and _ta-da_."

"They're lovely," Joyce commented, rubbing a petal between her fingertips and smiling at her kindly, and _God, mum, I've missed you_. "He seems thoughtful, dear, and from the way you talk about him, I can tell you really like him."

"I do," she whispered.

"Then remember that because if your town is as small as the one I used to live in, people are bound to talk and, considering your history, I doubt it'll be all approving. If you two are the real deal you'll pull through just fine and, if he keeps treating you the way he does, I think you two will be as happy as can be."

"Thank you…"

"It's my pleasure dear," she said, already making to stand. "Now, I've dallied long enough, you tell that boy to take care of you."

"I will," Hermione said, gripping her hands against her seat to prevent standing up and reaching for her – her arms aching to wrap around a woman who didn't remember her.

"Come visit soon, and bring him with, I'd love to meet him!"

"I will," she repeated, watching her go, and seeing for an instant beneath the glamour she had placed on her; seeing the woman Hermione looked exactly like.

She finished her tea, stood to go, but left behind a single white violet in her booth before departing. The dead deserved flowers, and white violets were her mother's favorite.

.

Owls were sitting outside her window, hooting at her for attention as she modeled her sixth outfit option for her date as she had been doing for the past hour and a half.

Hermione was surprised they hadn't flown off in indignation but she liked to think that, after the first ten minutes, the creatures were just as invested in her choice of attire as she was.

Ginny thought it was just as well considering she couldn't be there in person to help, though her disembodied head from the fireplace was just as good.

"A date, a proper date," her friend rejoiced.

"Relax, Mother, it's not that big of a deal," Hermione teased, playing it off as she turned to check if the dip in the back of her dress was _a little too much_ which Ginny totally disagreed with, of course.

As she walked back into her living room, Ginny shook her head, a disbelieving smile on her lips. "I can't believe you and Malfoy, I shouldn't be surprised really – he does eye-fuck you a lot."

Hermione groaned. "Not you too. Neville said the same thing."

"Because it's true," the redhead insisted. "I admit, I kind of thought he'd try _something_ sooner, but there was Ronald and -" She rolled her eyes at the thought of him and Hermione couldn't help but snicker.

"Aren't you supposed to be on his side?"

"There are no sides here, you're both family. He's a prat, and he's wrong, and you deserve to be happy. And if you're happy with a good looking man who knows how to wear his robes, then what kind of friend would I be if I didn't tell you to climb him like a tree and have his babies?"

"Gin!"

"I'm supportive," Ginny shouted with a laugh, "you can never say otherwise!"

Laughing along with her, Hermione did a turn and asked, "What do you think?"

Her friend hummed. "Those aren't wizarding robes."

"They're not," she allowed, "but it turns out, I don't have many of those." She never really needed many of them. She usually always wore office attire of some sort, with a wizarding robe over it in any event, and Ministry affairs could always be navigated through with a simple, sophisticated LBD. Hermione was better off investing in boardroom gladiator gear than anything else. Besides, her only other robe choice was the one from Draco's Ball and that was entirely too fancy for a first date. Plus, he'd already taken _that_ off of her and where was the fun in doing it a second time so soon after the first?

Ginny hummed again, and Hermione raised a brow. "Something wrong?"

"I just…don't know if you want to take the chance of not wearing robes. I mean, this is Draco Malfoy we're talking about. Where did he say he was taking you?"

"He didn't really," she admitted, "he just said to wear a dress; I assumed it included non-robe ones."

"Yeah but-" the redhead bit her lip. "Hermione, are you sure?"

"Of course, I am; unless this doesn't look good on me?" She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror she had moved near the fireplace, and examined the way the pale pink tulle skirt complimented nicely with her tanned skin and the black leather material of the strapless bodice that hugged her curves without emphasizing them too much, was a perfect contrast to the pink; it was the contradiction of sweet and dangerous; neither overtly prudish nor overtly sexy.

"No, no, you look amazing! I'm just worried that he'll take you to some fancy pure-blood eatery and the patrons will spend the rest of their evening side-eying you."

Hermione shrugged. "If they do, I hope they get migraines for the rest of the week."

"You aren't worried?" she asked in surprise, though Hermione hadn't expected otherwise. Ever since Ginny decided to wait for Harry as he sowed his wild oats, she'd become hyper-aware of what people were thinking of her which was not helped at all by the number of paparazzi waiting outside her door to _do something_.

Ginny had been broken in a different way to Hermione, the paranoia struck her deep and Molly had done her best to shield her from the world; it was like hitting the 'reverse' button on her only daughter's personality, and she seemed to withdraw with each passing week after Harry left.

Having him back didn't change anything either but Hermione guessed it might be because everyone in the Weasley family was still living like they had to bubble wrap everything.

"No," she said. "We survived a war, Ginny, why would I let someone's unasked for opinion bother me?"

"Because it might just remind you how little has actually changed, even though we won," she replied, frowning. Even when she shook, Hermione admired the way her chin stayed raised.

"Ginny…"

"It's different for me," the other woman said. "Nothing was ever really going to change for a pure-blood witch, at least not in the same way that it should have for you. Things…things were supposed to be different. Instead, the only thing that's really changed is that you get to sit in the building where people, who judge you based on the side you took and the blood you have, sit as your superiors. I heard about you fighting off yet another Muggle-born based law and I just can't understand why you're still having to fight this...this same thing over and over again!"

"Ginny," Hermione began once more, "no one ever said that the war was the be-all and end-all of the problems facing the wizarding community. I'll keep doing my part to correct that." That was the reality, that was her situation; what was left for Hermione to do but keep fighting?

"Because you have to," she supplied, shaking her head. "When will you stop _having to_?"

"When they stop trying to make me pick between the two worlds I'm a part of and I can't expect them to do that if I keep diluting who I am to get them to accept me."

Ginny sighed; her hand came into view to push her red hair off her forehead in a similar habit to Harry's. "You're right. Circe, you're right. I just don't know how you aren't tired."

"I am," Hermione divulged, hating the way her body practically sagged against her bones when she wasn't forcing herself to attention by sheer force of will. "But I'm also angry, and I'm not going to stop until the Muggle-borns after me don't have to keep fighting to belong here."

"You know I've got your back."

"I know," she said, with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Ginny."

"Of course, and – back to the outfit – I think it's perfect and it suits you and, if anyone tries to fight you, just take off your heel and stab them with it," she declared with a firm nod of approval.

.

Hermione held his arm for support as he escorted her from the apparition point to the restaurant of his choice, "Dinner," he informed, "is a safe first date option."

"Oh, are we having it in Paris?" She teased, "because I've had dinner dates before."

He snorted. "Dinner dates in pubs don't count."

"And places with no names, do?" she asked, brow raised in curiosity as they finally stopped before what looked to be a nondescript building – there were intricate black iron accents holding the big glass windows that were charmed with warm golden light but, beyond it, nothing could be seen. The door itself looked like the ones that could be found at an exclusive jewelry shop in New Bond Street yet there was no signage at all to recognize it by.

"Prestige needs no introduction." He squeezed her hand. "Ready?"

"Of course."

The door opened automatically as if someone was waiting for some sort of signal, although the person beyond wasn't particularly pleased to see who it was. The sour look on the maître d's face was valiantly put to rest, though as his notice shifted to Draco.

"Lord Malfoy, welcome, it is delightful to see you again. We've missed your presence for some time; I sincerely hope we haven't done anything to upset you?"

Titles and patronage - definitely as pure-blood as it came Hermione thought, forcing her features into polite indifference while Draco neutrally decided that the restaurant hadn't offended him yet.

"May I take your coat, Lord Malfoy?" the maître d' soldiered on, scrambling to make their esteemed guest comfortable and, in so doing, pushing Hermione back out the door – silently suggesting her departure.

Draco, noticing the man's obvious attempt to displace her and ignoring her to boot, made it clear that wouldn't be tolerated as he coldly ordered, "I can take off my own coat; if you wouldn't mind helping the lady?"

The maître d' smiled thinly. "I'm afraid, Miss Granger's reputation precedes her; we don't serve _her_ type here."

Prestige, indeed.

Taking the few steps it took to get back to Draco side, Hermione tilted her head at the man. "My type?" she repeated innocently. "What's that? Muggle-born?"

The rest of the tables looked up and it seemed like the delicate chatter they were greeted with fell into complete silence as Hermione asked, her tone almost confused, "Does my blood somehow affect the way the food tastes here? Or is _my type_ so poignant that it affects the structure of the building, the health of its patronage? Is it so terribly delicate?" She stage whispered worriedly, "How unfortunate."

Beside her, Draco snorted before zeroing his focus once more on the maître d', the message clear to everyone else in the establishment that had stopped what they were doing to pay attention to them. "I suggest you change that rule; I won't tolerate any disrespect towards my date and, if anything further _upsets_ her, I swear on the Black and Malfoy names that I will come for this place and everyone in it."

The maître d', already pale, was starting to look like he was a muggle who had seen a ghost for the first time. "Sir, I…I cannot…those are the rules."

"I'm Draco Malfoy, fuck the rules."

.

It was practically guaranteed that they would feature in tomorrow's "daily spread" in the Daily Prophet. Hermione had heard the gossip on the grapevine that reporters were anxiously awaiting the date with almost unbridled excitement.

Likely, they were hoping to have a photograph of Draco being turned away, embarrassing Hermione; or going to a place where _miraculously_ Draco was welcome but Hermione was not. Either way, the audience would be enthralled and the paper would win.

They were just as calculating and as manipulative as any society debutante, and Hermione could only grudgingly respect their scheme, something Draco had clearly taken into account.

His choice in a first date didn't surprise her in the slightest.

The pure-blood populace that spurned her was exactly who she needed to desensitize to her presence and, if she could find Draco's show of power ridiculously sexy and her less than amicable reception inconvenient at best, handling them at all would be child's play.

"Are you uncomfortable?" he asked after they were left to their devices in a private booth at the center of the dining room.

Her eyes flickered from the glass of wine in her hand to the man across the table, weighing the options of honesty and deceit before deciding there was little point in it when they were willing partners in the ploy. "Just enough."

"Don't worry, the hard part is over for now," he soothed, raising his own glass and swirling the wine within. "The food here is actually good and privacy is guaranteed now that we're seated."

"I thought the whole point was to be noticed?"

"It is," he allowed, "but we were seen on the walk here and, with that debacle at the reception, I'm sure we've made enough of a splash with our presence. If we make too much of a spectacle of ourselves, people will start to talk for the wrong reasons."

"You could have warned me," she said, a moment later.

"I needed to know that you could handle it and you did, with minimal interference from me."

"But just enough that you look like the perfect gentleman trying to fight for the honor of his lady while simultaneously reminding people how powerful you are," Hermione observed, and with a chuckle she noted, "How efficient of you."

"I do like efficiency," he allowed and, at the same time, they offered their glasses. The accompanying, melodic _ting_ seemed to rouse the world outside of their private booth back into motion. The chatter started up again although how much was about them Hermione couldn't say.

"I intend to make this date ruin all others for you," Draco said, "even if we aren't in Paris."

"I was joking about that," she laughed.

"Nonetheless, all that remains for us now is to enjoy our evening."

"In intervals where the waiter will likely consider spitting in my plate which he'll have ample opportunity to do," Hermione reminded, brows raised. "A five course meal, really?"

"I'd have gone for twelve but I have to wean you off the expectation of Shepard's Pie and Merlin knows what else," he informed. "And this would be the perfect time to ensure your etiquette is up to scratch."

"They weren't that bad and, for your information, I know how to eat my food, Malfoy," she informed prudishly.

"Oh, I'm aware." And though her first instinct was to think he was unimpressed with the way she held a spoon, the sheer heat in his gaze brought her back to that day in his study.

She'd never been one for oral sex especially since neither of her two lovers after Draco were reciprocal.

Even if he hadn't been either, the picture of him so unraveled and undone in the throes of his pleasure made her feel powerful, and the thought of doing it again stirred something in her belly akin to hunger. She hid her swallow with a smile.

"Careful, Draco," she murmured, "I'll start to think you like our arrangement."

He smirked. "What can I say? I've never stopped being a little bit in lust with you."


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Hermione was conscious of the scars that littered her body – bruises that never faded, dark curses that would never be purged; cuts that constantly reopened and chills that crawled up and down her spine, threatening to send her into a panic at any given moment.

On the outside, by the end of the war, she looked just as whole as any other twenty-five-year-old who hadn't seen and fought in a war, magic was lovely like that. It had a way of convincing you that your body hadn't been thrown around a room, pushed down an endless flight of stairs, burned, beaten and starved.

The body could be convinced of anything; the mind was not so similarly manipulated.

While bones could be regrown, skin grafted, and bruises healed; the mind becomes frighteningly more powerful – your biggest ally, your only cure; your most terrifying enemy.

In their own way, everyone had been ripped to pieces and put back together with crazy glue, good intentions and bad choices. No one had been spared, least of all, the children that had been enlisted to fight the war in the first place.

Harry and Ron weren't safe from it either; good lives now notwithstanding.

The war changed everyone even if they still looked all the same on the outside, but the outside wasn't the only thing left.

Hermione knew it better than anyone as she held Harry through episodes that made him scream, and allowed herself to be yelled at hoarse by Ron's explosive fits of temper during particularly difficult nights on the Horcrux Hunt and throughout the war itself. She held them both, murmuring platitudes of comfort even as they clawed and scratched and cried and yelled and _hurt_.

They always apologized after; eyes still haunted; bones still heavy.

But they could never return the favor.

They couldn't handle it when she screamed, when she yelled, when she cried; worse still was when she felt herself grow paralyzed, staring into nothing and murmuring aloud that she could die – right now – it wouldn't matter – it wouldn't change anything – _please don't leave me, I'm afraid of what I'll do_ , _please don't go -_

What actually truly hurt was that they did.

Her darkness borne from their joint experience was too murky, too prickly, too _much_ for them so they left, even when she begged and pleaded and held on as tight as she could – _"Hermione, you can't…you can't expect us to do this…to stay to see you like this, I –"_

Hermione was used to waking up to an empty bed; an empty tent; used to being alone, used to being left behind.

She learned to be used to it; her darkness had no mercy, either way, it didn't matter if she had someone to watch, and sometimes she wondered if there was even a point to being that person for Ron and Harry.

When Hermione felt her body grow rigid in the midst of sleep, she knew what it was, and forced her eyes to open and stare at literally anything else instead of whatever nightmarish memory her brain decided to conjure up – and then she saw Draco looking right at her; gun metal eyes practically mercurial in the whispers of the night.

For a moment, she wondered if her brain created him instead; imagined him out of thin air until he squeezed her bare hip, and his lips moved –

 _I can't hear you; what are you telling me?_

Blinking once, then twice; the angle within her perception shifted bringing her under a tidal wave that threatened to drown her as the distance between them grew and the room around them spun to become something else.

Suddenly, she was looking up at him at a rather odd angle as he stood a few feet away – his eyes burning into hers – intense and unyielding – his fists were tightly wound, his knuckles skinned and bone peeking through – his lips moved and she heard nothing.

The cotton balls in her ears muffled his voice, but somehow she knew it was different – void of emotion, empty and cruel.

The sharp pain that struck her next had her gasping for air, and by then, Draco had moved and the picture in her head shifted once more.

With his head lifted and resting against hers, he murmured into her ear, his hand moving to rub slow circles at the base of her spine.

For several agonizing minutes, her reality altered between the comforting platitudes of a language she couldn't comprehend and his expressionless face as he watched the knife drive into her over and over and over and – "Stay with me, Granger, I'm right here."

Her breath was heavy as it was released and even harder to suck back in. She shuddered against a cold she didn't actually feel and mumbled back, "I'm scared."

"I know," he murmured, nuzzling her. "I am too but I'm right here. Just breathe with me and we'll wait for it to pass."

Her grip on him tightened. "Please…please don't leave me."

"I won't, I promise."

They lay together, tense and quiet bar the exaggerated breaths he took for her to follow.

Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep, and Draco soothed the furrow in her brow and tightened the arm he threw around her waist, kissing her forehead before tucking her beneath his chin.

Aloud, he said to no one, "I've got you."

.

Hermione awoke slowly, aware of Draco's fingers carding through her hair as he fiddled with something and, only when she peeked out through her lashes, did she realize it was the Daily Prophet he was perusing.

"Did we make it to the front page?" she heard herself ask, voice still sleepy and hoarse from disuse.

He paused in his ministrations to glance down at her, smiled slightly, and then resumed. "We did, indeed. They even included a delightful picture of us, and my little speech in the restaurant captured Lady Greengrass' horrified expression perfectly."

She snorted quietly, nuzzling at his hip.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, and she hid her flush of embarrassment against his skin as she mumbled, "Alright…I'm sorry, about last night. I don't suppose that's how you'd normally end a date, is it?"

"To be fair, I haven't actually been on date since you dumped me in school."

"I didn't dump you," she denied, looking up to squint at him. "It was mutual."

"It was mutual because we agreed it was the right thing to do," he clarified, "but, if you also remember, I still didn't want to."

"And you thought I did?"

"You were better off without me," he said to the paper and she looked up at him curiously, scrutinizing the hard line of his jaw and the serious expression on his face.

He didn't actually think…?

Raising herself up by her hands and getting firmly in the way of his reading by getting nose to nose with him, she spoke. "Draco."

"Yes?"

"Look at me."

"You're not giving me much else to look at, Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You can't turn the sass off for five minutes, can you?"

"I thought I was doing pretty well," he defended with a smirk, bumping her nose with his before returning to the topic, "What?"

"If I could be with anyone else, it would have been you. If it didn't mean we'd put each other in danger, it would have been you. If it didn't mean asking you to choose between Dumbledore and Voldemort, it would have been you and me and literally anywhere else in the world."

"I asked you for that," he reminded quietly. "Anywhere else in the world."

She swallowed. In another world, that's what she could have done – left everything behind – avoided war and torture and loss and pain – and ran. "I know, I just -"

"Have a responsibility," Draco supplied. "I know." Their noses brushed and he rested his forehead against hers. "And you still do and that's why you're still here."

Blinking, Hermione realized, "Is that why you're still here?"

He exhaled quietly before meeting her eyes. "I was never going to let you do this alone."

.

Harry looked seriously displeased. Hermione doubted it was because she was two minutes late for work.

Having casually greeted her secretary, she set her bag down and hung up her coat. She caught his cheek in a greeting kiss before walking past him to get behind her desk. "Good morning, Harry. What can I do for you?"

"What is this?" he demanded, the Daily Prophet in hand.

"A newspaper," she said, not even sparing it more than a two-second glance. "Not the best, I'm sure you're aware, but there's no accounting for taste I suppose."

"The front page, Hermione! What…what is this?" Harry shoved the paper in front of her, dropping it on top of a new stack of paperwork she had planned to begin working on as soon as she arrived. She sighed at the triptych on the front page – Draco and her at Hogwarts, the two of them attending a Ministry function (separately but the Prophet seemed to ignore that fact), and a picture from last night as they left the nameless restaurant. Truly, the angles the media could come up with were endless.

"Tabloids?" she queried and, at the unimpressed expression on his face, she sighed again. "What do you want me to say, Harry?"

"That this is all some kind of big joke!"

"That I'd land a date with someone that isn't Ron or that someone isn't a harmless airhead like Cormac?"

"Hermione, I'm serious!"

"So am I," she snapped and, before her temper could get away from her – _God, why the hell did Harry always choose Ron over her? Why is it that he could never think about how things made her feel rather than how it would make Ron feel? -_ Hermione exhaled slowly and began again, "Draco and I have been going to the same court proceedings for several weeks now. He brought up some concerns yesterday, we talked in my office –" Hah! "– and for whatever reason, he asked me to dinner. That's all."

"Why was he going to the same court proceedings as you, what does he want?" Oh Harry, she despaired, only marginally concerned, _so suspicious_.

"It was about the Werewolf Registration Act." When Harry said nothing, Hermione rolled her eyes. "It was about Teddy, Harry; Draco was there for Teddy. Andromeda's got her hands full with him and she couldn't attend them herself so she asked Draco to go for her." To both their credits, it wasn't a lie; Draco had offered the information himself in the midst of their argument about the registration proceedings. She _had_ attempted to find out when he and Andromeda had reconciled but he was not so willing to share.

Harry was quick to go on the defensive, "She didn't ask me to –"

"When was the last time you saw Andromeda? Or Teddy for that matter?" she asked sharply and her friend's cheeks instantly flared as he began to squirm in his seat. Hermione relented in a patient tone, "Harry, I really don't want to fight with you about this. It was just one date."

"Was it?"

"Well, I wouldn't say no if he asked again," Hermione allowed and, with just the right amount of bashfulness, she admitted, "I'm actually hoping he does. We had a good time together."

A scandalized gasp was heard at that moment from behind the door making him jump in surprise. _And he defeated Voldemort_ , Hermione sighed. Circe, deliver me.

"Don't worry; they were bound to talk anyway. Frankly, Harry, I don't care. But what I _do_ care about is what _you_ think. I don't want you to be angry with me about this. You're my best friend and you're the only family I have left. Just, please, please don't be angry."

"How…Hermione, you know what he's done!"

"And we're better, somehow, because we were on the right side? Because we won?" she asked and, again, he shifted. "Harry, don't do this. Last night was the first time I ever felt really safe with anyone and, if anyone knows what we went through, it was him. For Merlin's sake, Voldemort was in his house, keeping him and his family hostage! How is that any different to what happened with Ginny? With you?"

"I...I just don't want you to get hurt, Hermione. Malfoy, you know, he isn't a good guy," Harry insisted.

"Do I? All I knew about him in school was that he hated you and that he was a bully and a jerk but war changes people. _You_ know that." When he said nothing, and the chattering behind the door continued, Hermione finally cast a silencing spell, took a deep breath, and changed tactics. "I don't even know why I'm pushing you so hard to accept him; he might not even want to see me again." _And the award..._

Harry, supportive to a fault, fell right into her trap as he demanded, "Why wouldn't he? You're amazing! I thought you said the two of you had a good time?"

"Yeah, I did, and I think he did too. But I haven't been with anyone since Ron, really, and you know how that turned out." She waved off dismissively.

"Don't, what Ron did was –" Harry shook his head. "It wasn't right but that had nothing to do with you. Well, maybe a little, I mean...well, you are a bit of a workaholic but still...it didn't give him the right to sleep with Lavender when he was with you."

Progress.

 _...for Best Witch…_

"I know," she agreed, "but it's still a blow to the self-esteem. Plus, I'm just getting to know _this_ Draco. I know who he _was_ , and I don't want to hold that against him, but it's kind of hard having to juggle those two things and my own insecurities. Do you understand where I'm coming from, Harry?"

 _...in a Daytime Drama..._

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign of his discomfort. "I guess…I just don't want you to get hurt or make a mistake in doing this…I mean, it's still Malfoy."

"It is, Harry, but he's been really nice since I got to see him again and last night really was wonderful. There's no harm in giving him a chance especially since you know I can take care of myself."

"Yeah…yeah I guess so. I'm sorry I came in here blowing my top, Hermione. I really was just worried about you."

 _...goes to..._

"I know, Harry, I appreciate it," she said soothingly, smothering her triumphed smile.

 _...Hermione Jean Granger!_

"I know it's probably the last thing on your mind," Harry began, "but what are you going to do about Ron when he finds out? He isn't exactly the most…level-headed; he's still convinced you'll take him back!"

She swallowed the bark of laughter that tickled her throat and covered it with a cough and, with more honesty and conviction than she had had throughout the whole conversation with Harry, Hermione reassured, "Ronald is _nothing_ Draco and I can't handle."


	7. Chapter 7

7.

The Department of Magical Creatures was comprised of mainly Ravenclaw and Slytherin graduates, more so than in any other department (beside the Department of Research of Magical Development, perhaps). So it wasn't surprising that the arrival of Ron's dramatic two-door entry and a roar of " _Where is she?"_ was met with various looks of disapproval and judgment passed by simple glances and slightly raised brows.

Ron was answered with silence and the indignant huffs from the redhead were all that was heard until almost serenely Bertina, head of the department, approached him. "Mr. Weasley, how may we help you?"

"Where is she?" he demanded through gritted teeth as a pair of Ravenclaw officemates mockingly widened their eyes at each other in a _who-does-he-think-he-is_ way.

"I assume you're talking about Ms. Granger?"

"Who do you _think_?" he shoved passed her, upending an intern who was scurrying by with a considerable pile of folders. Ignoring the trembling mess, Ron continued to stalk further into the bullpen.

One of the few Hufflepuffs in the department mouthed to their Slytherin deskmate, "Arsehole."

"What was that?" Ron growled, stopping at the Hufflepuff's desk.

Though momentarily embarrassed at being caught, the Hufflepuff opened her mouth to reply. Though her colleague got there first, monotonously repeating, "Arsehole. You heard the lady correctly."

Ron and the Slytherin were now chest to chest. Practically spitting, the redhead glowered, "Watch yourself... _snake_."

A single brow rose, the aristocratic indifference clearly a Slytherin move they taught in the dungeons, as the young man intoned, "Do we have a problem, Weasley?"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, do we?" Bertina repeated any sign of graciousness now dissolved into a subtle warning.

"We do. Where's Hermione?"

Nodding at the Slytherin to take his seat, Bertina replied, "Ms. Granger is in her office in the central atrium, I expect. We have a trial to win and can't afford any distractions, you understand."

"Her office?" he repeated; face reddening with embarrassment.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley. Did you not hear about her promotion?"

No. No, he did not.

The staff hid their snorts of amusement behind mugs of coffee and feigned interest in their paperwork.

Ron's cheeks burned as he glared at a sniggering Ravenclaw from their year. "I don't know why you're all chuckling to yourselves, your department's in danger."

The laughter increased tenfold, even the Hufflepuffs stopped trying to hide their mirth. Ron pushed on, nonetheless. "I assume you've all read the Prophet this morning? You don't see that one of your counselors is putting your work in danger?"

"If that _is_ the case, Mr. Weasley, I'd prefer it if you leave such concerns with me rather than with Ms. Granger. She may be heir apparent but I am still in charge."

Ron boiled over like a pot of tea kept too long on the heat. "It's Hermione; Hermione's the one putting you all in danger! She's being linked to Draco Malfoy, for fuck's sake!"

"Draco Malfoy?" Bertina raised a brow, her disapproval clear. "I assumed that was one of Skeeter's deplorable tactics to discredit Ms. Granger again. What is she doing with him? We have an important law we're trying to overturn! We can't afford to have our counselors questioned on ethics when they're connected to people like _him_."

Ron raised his hand, pointing to her with it. "Thank you!"

Already turning away, despite his mocking congratulations, Bertina called for her interns to meet in her office. "We need to put an end to this. Malfoy will destroy Hermione's, and our department's, credibility if she's linked to him any longer than she already has. Find out _everything_ about him, leave no stone unturned; this cannot stand."

At this point, the Slytherins around the office suddenly found their paperwork immensely interesting.

"But Ms. Craft," a Hufflepuff protested, "surely Hermione knows what she's doing!"

"Torpedo her entire reputation and legacy, to save one of the most infamous Death Eaters on the off chance he shows a hint of potential at being good? Sounds like something she would do," a Ravenclaw remarked. With that, the speculation in the office grew rampant and Ron was quickly forgotten.

So, whilst Bertina and her interns began to frantically discuss damage control, Ron marched into Hermione's office to face the lioness herself.

.

" _Do you really think he'd choose you, Mione, without some ulterior motive? I know you're mad at me but you can't be_ that _naïve!"_

Hermione puffed out a breath of annoyance, knotting her hair in a tighter bun to keep it from getting wet. She was already having an awful day and didn't need it made worse by having to cast spell after spell to keep her curls in some semblance of order. The anger and hurt that clawed at her chest threatened to turn her into a raging mess of tears and uncontrollable frizz. With her luck, Draco would come in at that exact moment to witness her sobbing and yelling over her bloody hair.

 _St. Mungo's, line one, counter three, room four; your padded room is ready for you._

After all, she was well aware of the image she projected: perfect, put-together, do-no-wrong Granger.

It was her own fault, really.

In the years since the war's conclusion, she had fallen into step as a walking propaganda puppet because she still believed in what her superiors thought was best. _They need something; someone to believe in, Hermione, and who better than you? Who better than the Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age, and a Muggle-born one at that!_

She should have known better but, after months on the run and suffering so much loss and trauma, Hermione just didn't want to think anymore. She didn't want to choose. Fuck! She didn't even want to live and, for a while, she didn't. She ran on autopilot; she took orders and did what was expected of her. She stayed within the lines; she smiled and nodded, and that was her life.

During the war, she had kept her head held high. Well, she had to, didn't she? She was a Gryffindor; the best in her class; Harry Potter's best friend, Hermione Jean Granger.

But, when Harry wasn't around, it was Hermione that people looked to. If she could keep the Boy-Who-Lived alive, with Voldemort personally gunning for his demise, then what couldn't Hermione Granger do?

After the war, the burden only increased.

She hadn't realized that being a beacon of hope could be so painfully draining to what remained of her mental and emotional reserves as she carried postwar Magical Britain on her shoulders like Atlas.

But she couldn't do it huffing and puffing. Not a chance; Hermione Granger, the great and powerful, couldn't be seen struggling to do _what should already be natural to her_.

So with boardroom gladiator gear and confidence exuding from every stride to every carefully constructed smile, Hermione's public persona was born: War heroine, courtroom activist, political unicorn, and perfect propaganda puppet; golden legacy, indeed.

Hermione couldn't lose, they wouldn't let her, and she took some comfort in that.

But Ron – Ron always found a way to challenge that; he could drag her back to the days before her Hogwarts letter before she was Brilliant Hermione Granger and only _Hermie Gagger_ – number one target for primary school bullies.

It didn't matter what she had achieved or what she was capable of because, in the end, Ron could still reduce her to an emotional mess of a little girl.

He had barged into her office, just missing Harry's departure by a hair. _"Ronald,"_ she had cordially greeted.

" _Is that what you're doing now?"_ Ron seethed, shoving the Daily Prophet in her face. _"Well? Is it? Trying to get me back by cheating on me with that-that Death Eater?"_

Patient as ever, Hermione replied, _"It can't be cheating if we're already over, Ronald, and, as I recall, that was your fault."_

His nostrils flared, ignoring her. _"So it is then, isn't it? You're just trying to get a reaction from me?"_

" _Not everything is about you,"_ she retorted, _"and, in the instance of Draco, you hadn't even crossed my mind_." Only to laugh at your reaction but you definitely weren't on my mind when he was between my thighs, she thought, busying herself with her stack of paperwork once more.

He laughed then as if her attempt at distraction from her own amusements was enough to indicate a lie on her part. _"Mione, do you really think he could actually want you?"_

She stilled then and, as the words echoed in her head now, the movement of her hand over the surface of the water stilled too.

Ron had said more, so much more.

Hermione had always been emotional but Ron was more volatile. Gone was that funny, caring boy that had begrudgingly respected her, teased her, and took care of her and Harry. And now? Now every word was laced with venom, aimed at all the insecurities she was foolish enough to let him see. It all boiled down to one sentence: _"Do you really think_ anyone _would_ actually _want_ you _?"_

That was the crux of it, really, careless and selfish and stupid. It was her ego that would ruin her; Draco said so himself, and the tragedy was that he and Ron were right. Even as she switched off that part of her brain that was begging compassion and forgiveness and, _he's just angry, he doesn't mean it,_ she lost control as she ripped Ron a new one.

Hermione heard it in her own voice – the detachment, the malice, the sheer contempt. _"And you think you're such a prize, Ronald Weasley? The bumbling sidekick to the nation's savior; the boy who couldn't pass OWLs let alone NEWTs; the boy who only got his position on his beloved Quidditch team because I was distracting his competition, the boy who only holds a position now because he's best mates with Harry Potter; the boy who couldn't keep it in his pants because the woman he supposedly loves is doing better than him; the boy who's just a sad attempt at a man with no accomplishments of his own?"_ Her laugh was cold. _"Ronald Weasley, if no one wants me; how could anyone want you?"_

The rest of her day was shot after that.

It felt like a victory, at least, squaring up to Ron once more and knowing for certain he had no more cards to play against her when faced with his own inadequacies, but the bitterness left an aftertaste.

 _This is not the person I wanted to become_ , she sighed, leaning back against the porcelain tub. She stared at the ceiling, her arms stretched out over the lip of the bath, for what felt like hours. Only the sound of the door creaking brought her back. She turned to see Draco leaning against the doorjamb of her bathroom door.

"I couldn't find you; I forgot you still have your own place."

She tried to smile. "We haven't been plotting for long, I had to come home eventually."

His outer robe was already discarded, his tie still in place even though the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the slight tilt of his head made her sink marginally deeper into her admittedly pathetic tub. _He knows._

"I heard about Weasley coming to see you," he began slowly.

"And Harry," she piqued quickly, "though, I took care of him."

"You took care of Weasley too."

She nodded somewhat hastily and that's when he pushed himself off the doorjamb and walked towards her, his fingers skimming the rim of the tub – sliding easily over her arm and sending droves of goosebumps over her skin as he did so.

Tilting her head to follow his movement, he dropped a kiss against her temple as he settled on his haunches beside her. "Did he hurt you?"

"Of course not."

Any argument she had to defend was obliterated by a quiet sigh, her name from his lips whispered against her shoulder.

Turning her head to look at him, Hermione hoped any residual emotions didn't show on her face. She had swallowed down the hiccups hours ago and, after a good long cry, she felt she could convince anyone she was as right as rain. Apparently, that 'anyone' didn't include Draco.

Grey eyes searched her face, taking in the faint tear stains that marked her cheeks, the redness in her eyes, and the lines between her brows as she valiantly tried to keep her pain away from him.

Pale brows furrowed as his frown deepened; there was a slight flare of his nostrils as he exhaled, controlling his rage as he took in the woman before him. Hermione didn't need Weasley's destruction – she just needed someone.

Draco reached over, cupping her neck, and gently guiding her face to his as he murmured against her lips, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Granger."

"I don't need you to protect me," she sighed against his ear, even as she felt her throat burn with the lie.

Harry had stopped protecting her ages ago. She was the Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age; proficient in research ranging from every discipline and spell execution of almost every variety; she had gotten in and out of enough messes on her own with only her wits and her magic to aid her. Hermione had always been unwavering in the face of danger and death but people forgot that she needed help too. She supposed it was the downside of pretending you were okay all the time; people tended to believe you.

"I know," he replied quietly as if he heard the quiet anguish she had kept in heart, rubbing her back still soaked with bubbles. "But you shouldn't have to face your dragons alone, not when you have me."

Draco stood, taking her with him. Once she stepped out of his embrace, she suddenly realized how cold she was. How long had she stared at that ceiling?

"Let's go to bed, you must be tired. Or would you rather we get something to eat first?"

She shook her head as he helped her climb out of the cold water, swaddling her like a baby in the towel he pilfered from the rack beside the sink.

They walked the few steps to her considerably smaller and less impressive bedroom, the only luxury being the poster bed.

Gently he turned her around as he rubbed the towel down the length of her, smothering the remaining moisture that lingered on her skin as he worked her dry, and kneeling before her to get to where he needed to.

"Draco, you don't need to -"

"I know, you can do it yourself," he interjected patiently as his thumbs lingered against the part of her body he was gazing at. "I want to." He peered up at her. "If you'll let me?"

Tugging the towel back into place over her breasts, she nodded.

He rose to his full height, gesturing for her to sit on the bed. She did so, shimmying up so her head lay on the pillow as he sat between her legs.

Ignoring the fact that the double doors leading to the living room were wide open to the foot of her bed, Hermione bracketed her legs further to accommodate him. Anyone using the Floo would be in for an eyeful!

"I couldn't find you after I heard what happened," he continued, applying a warming charm to his hands as he rubbed her feet before moving slowly up her legs.

"I needed some time alone."

When he nodded almost absently, she made a sound of annoyance and ranted, "Ron was being Ron. I should have been more prepared. I knew there'd be a confrontation; I wasn't ready. I...I was just as cruel as he was...everyone heard...everyone."

He moved on to the other foot, pressing gently at her heels, warming her arch before moving to her ankle.

Hermione continued, "I don't even know why I still take it so personally. He's never had much of a regard for my feelings, especially when he's angry, and I should have known better. I should have made sure I got what I needed to get him out of my sight for good."

"And your heart."

"What?"

"Granger," Draco began patiently, "he was someone important to you for years so whatever he says will always have an impact on you."

"Not necessarily," she argued.

"You may not have been in love with him, but you did love him," Draco reasoned, patient in the face of the torrent of emotions washing over her face as she absorbed what he said, denied it, argued it; hated it.

Hermione sighed, frustrated and hurting. Moments of tense silence crept by before she pressed on, "I hate who I am when I'm with him. He always seems to bring out the worst in me and I…I don't like who I am whenever he's around." Falling on her back and staring at her ceiling in defeat, she admitted, "Ron always had a way of reminding me how undesirable I was, that the only reason people wanted me around was that they needed me for something and-" She licked her lips, her face twisting as if she could taste the bitterness on her tongue. "If given the choice I wouldn't be it."

When Draco said nothing, she gazed at him. "If I hadn't come to you with my plans if I was just...me, would I be your choice?"

"Granger -"

"It's okay," she interjected, facing the ceiling once more. "I'm used to it, honest." Smiling almost blandly, Hermione added, "It still hurts, but I swear I'm used to it." Nearly every explosive argument with Ron had ended in both of them feeling inadequate and cruel; she hadn't become desensitized to the barbs as she thought, she'd only forgotten what they felt like.

"I'd choose you."

"W-what?"

"I would choose you. Hermione, I – I wanted to leave everything behind at a chance with you – when we were dumb teenagers who were only obsessed with one another because somehow we were good together – I wanted you."

"And you still…you still do?" she asked quietly, sitting up to reach him as he moved forward to shorten the distance between them. "Draco – I'm not the same person I was when we tried to forget everything –"

"I'm not either, but I could try and be enough."

"No, no." Hermione shook her head, cradling his face in her hands. "You don't need to try – you are – you are, always. I just – I don't want you to be disappointed – or-or put me up on some pedestal like the rest of them – I can't pretend all the time – I don't think I can keep doing that."

"Then you won't need to, at least not with me," he murmured.

When Draco noted the slight hesitation in her expression, he chastely pressed his lips to hers and said, "Granger, Hermione; you're the closest thing to mercy I've ever gotten in this world. Let me be yours."

She swallowed hard against the fear; the survival instinct screaming at her that this could be a mistake – that she was putting all that was left of her on the line for something – for someone – that could leave her behind – that had.

"Draco," she whimpered, "what if I can't?"

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, giving her a slight smile and informing, "Then I'll give you this city and whatever else you could ever want. I'll give you everything if that's what you need. If that's what it takes."

.

Like any seventeen-year-old only child, Draco Malfoy was bound to his parents from whom he sought approval as fiercely as was expected. Perhaps even more so; unlike most pure-blood families the trio genuinely loved each other.

When the lines were drawn, Draco followed them as any child would have followed their parents, and so his life as a Death Eater began.

First, in some semblance of earnest but then as something detached, something strange – a distracted sort of focus. He couldn't be blamed, not really, a Hufflepuff intern interjected, "The Death Eaters had set up shop at Malfoy Manor, don't you remember how full of dark magic that place was? It was enough to make anyone puke just standing in the entrance! And Narcissa Malfoy – she – do you remember how she was found? How they...how they killed her?" Shivers and murmurs circled the boardroom table.

A Slytherin intern spoke quietly, "We need to stay objective; we need to stick to the facts."

"They tortured her _for months; that was_ a fact, it was in the report," a Ravenclaw reminded him.

"Do you think…?" Another Slytherin asked hesitantly, "Do you think…they made him watch?"

The room grew quiet once more. That was an experience most had thankfully avoided but not everyone was so lucky. And from Draco's luck throughout the war, the documented parts at least, he drew a shit lot.

Someone cleared their throat, a Ravenclaw. "It seems his only objective during the days leading up to and including the Final Battle was to protect his father. Lucius…well, he had gone a bit mad after his wife was killed. It's believed that Draco killed Lucius himself; by the man's own request."

"This was _after_ the war?" Bertina confirmed.

"When it finished, yes." The Ravenclaw nodded. "They were both taken into quarantine when it was all over. They were injured, of course, but couldn't be kept around everyone else. Madame Pomfrey's account of the events that took place – with Lucius asking Draco to end his life – was altered in the account she gave to the Prophet, making it sound like Draco had murdered his father out of disappointment."

"I'd be disappointed too, if my dad asked me to do that after everything we'd been through," someone mumbled.

"Nonetheless," another Ravenclaw picked up, "with Sirius Black dead, and Lucius gone, there were no heirs to the Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Black or Malfoy, only Draco. It was expected he would take his place, by law of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. To have him fighting for both his families' lines was expected, even if it was distasteful."

"Distasteful to claim what's his?" A Slytherin asked, brow raised in challenge. "Malfoy was - _is_ \- from two Noble Houses; it was the one thing he did right in the eyes of society."

"At least before the Prophet twisted it up."

"I have accounts saying Draco was the one to confirm Harry was dead at the Battle of Hogwarts," a Hufflepuff piqued.

"That's not pertinent to our stance, give me something else," Bertina insisted. "His finances; what he's been doing up to now...he's been living like a relative ghost since he won his case for the two family vaults."

Another Slytherin coughed. "Actually, that's interesting…" Instead of divulging the information she had gathered, she passed her superior the folder.

Nodding, Bertina accepted it, scanning its contents as the rest of the interns glanced at each other.

A few minutes of perusal later, the silence in the room grew deafening, until, "Draco Malfoy is the benefactor."

Startled, the wizards exchanged looks of disbelief.

She took a deep breath before composing herself; this was not what she ever expected to read about the man her team was investigating. "The mysterious benefactor who's been funding almost all of the organizations and movements to help the country move on from the war; the children, the hospitals, the building reconstruction, _all of it_." Considering his assets, Bertina reckoned, he really was one of the few who could afford the sway the Ministry the way he did, without ever having to show his face to do it. Her mind began to whirl.

Publically, the man was a social pariah; something the media and even the Ministry itself reveled in. To know that despite that, he was the one who held their fates, financially, in his hands was something too amazingly ironic to believe. The fact that he hadn't exploited it, proved something else.

Draco Malfoy, for all his pride, was sorry for his part in destroying his country.

She could keep this to herself, Bertina thought. The benefactor under the spell of her most accomplished counselors. She still had time to shut Skeeter out and keep one of the best-kept secrets in Magical Britain to herself, oh, the possibilities were endless…

Every goal Bertina had ever set up for her department - her legacy - was entirely possible now. She could leave her department altogether, campaign for the highest office in their society and _actually win_. There would be no uphill climbs; just law after law getting passed or swatted away like a bug; just the _suggestion_ of a promotion for Hermione Granger would have Draco Malfoy, alongside the might of his combined family tree and the vaults associated with it, forcing every staunch pure-blood wizard on the council to bow to his whim.

He may have managed the most cunning turn-around she'd ever seen, but Bertina Craft was a Slytherin too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Please note that if you read this story prior to 28/10/2017 I did edit and move things around with some scenes added and removed, I would highly recommend re-reading the story from the beginning, particularly chapter 5 and 6 as they have the most changes.**

8.

Hermione reorganized her stack of paperwork with a stifled yawn. She set it down on the side-table next to the fireplace and, tugging his shirt she had stolen but left mostly-unbuttoned, she padded back into Draco's room.

With the distraction of their rendezvous at yet another pure-blood establishment, the witch had forgotten about the pile of reports she still had to settle before the next day's trial. Her boss wouldn't be too happy to find that her usually punctual right-hand had slipped up – likely due to her new boy-toy. Whilst Hermione had considered the pros and cons of it happening for the sake of the bigger scheme, she couldn't let any suggestion that Draco was a bad influence tarnish his suitability for her. According to her quick debrief with Parvati via owl, Hermione knew the papers had predictably settled into the "He's a Death Eater, he must be blackmailing her somehow" angle.

Closing the door as quietly as she did when she left a few hours ago, Hermione crept back towards the bed. It was pure relief to be welcomed by the warm duvets and the inviting body within.

The pale moonlight rested on the marble pallor of his back and she paused at the sight of the white rips against his skin which she knew mirrored the scars that lay across his abdomen and chest. Nuzzling against him, arms circling his waist from behind, she moaned – a little for the comfort that his familiar scent brought her and a little for what the war had done to him.

In some cruel way, she was grateful for those blights on his sinfully perfect form. She could even go so far as to admit she was jealous; at least he had physical proof, people would think twice before bringing up "the glory days" with scars ravaging his body so mercilessly. Still, she held him tightly until she felt him rouse from sleep, murmuring distractedly in the early winks of dawn, "Granger?"

Pressing a kiss against his shoulder, Hermione mumbled back, "I'm here."

She felt Draco's hand squeeze hers against his abdomen as he exhaled, "I know."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"What's wrong?"

Shaking her head, she said, "Nothing, I'm just…thinking."

"I know that, I can hear you from here."

"Well that's not terribly difficult, we're next to one another," Hermione pointed out. Draco turned on his side to get a better look at her, his fingers branding themselves against her hips as he pulled her close.

The grey in his eyes looked silver in the sparse light; his pale skin luminous – like he was something she imagined and, come morning, he'd be gone. She cupped his cheek. "You were up early," she murmured quietly.

"Says the one that got out of bed to work."

"You were supposed to be asleep."

"So were you, or was the sex last night so terrible you couldn't even go to sleep?" he quipped, brows raised in curiosity, and the thought was so absurd she almost started laughing.

"I forgot to do some paperwork before I went out with you," she admitted, "and it's due tomorrow."

"Hermione Granger forgetting to do homework because of me? I'm honoured."

She smacked his chest as he chuckled. "For your information, I had every intention of doing them _after_ our date."

"And who said anything about our date ending at a reasonable hour?"

"Definitely not the same people who turn their noses up at sex in fancy restaurants," she recalled smartly.

"If I remember correctly, you were the one who got under the table -"

"Because I dropped my serviette," she interjected, even as her eyes flashed in mischief.

"I didn't realize it fell on my lap. I _certainly_ didn't think it landed in my pants," he remarked, brows raised in something that would be displeasure had it not been for that roguish smirk pulling at his lip. "If I had known that having such a terrible waiter meant I got blowjobs in public, I'd be more than happy to take you to all the pure-blood eateries I can find."

"I couldn't exactly show my displeasure, could I? Besides, I doubt the company would be at all pleased to find that I defiled their establishment in more ways than just with my presence," Hermione declared, her expression smug.

"At least one of us was pleased," he mused, his smirk dissolving into a cheeky grin, and her façade dropping as she laughed once more.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead again, tugging her to rest beneath his chin as he rubbed her back. His voice reverberated through her in a comforting growl as he enquired, "Did you get all your work done?"

"I did," she said, nuzzling his chest. "I spoke to Parvati as well."

"The Daily Prophet reporter?"

"And school friend slash roommate," Hermione added. "She's still trying to get her big break, in fact she got a tip about some racketeering last night but she wanted to give me a heads-up first that she was pulled into a meeting with Rita Skeeter."

She could practically see his nose crinkle in distaste. "What did Skeeter want?"

"A comment about how you and I got on at school. Apparently they're using that in an article to be released tomorrow."

For a few minutes he said nothing, before, "I bet five gallons we'll be front page."

"Only five?"

"I already provide you with sexual favors, and you still want my money?"

Hermione snickered and smacked his chest again before they lapsed once more into silence. After a while, she whispered, "It doesn't look good though; the article."

"I warned you it wouldn't be," he said, his tone just as quiet as he repeated the sentiment. "This isn't going to be easy."

She tightened her arms around him. "They say such cruel things about you."

"They're not entirely undeserved." He had chosen to be a soldier, chosen to be an instrument in Voldemort's schemes, chosen to kill –

"Draco, you didn't have a choice."

"Everyone does," he disagreed. "The easier choice was to go along with it; it would protect me and my family for a time and damn everyone else. The harder choice was to go against it and give everyone else a chance."

Her voice was small; even as her hold remained steadfastly strong around him. "You would have died."

"I did," he amended, "a few times."

She held on as he recalled, "I met you in some city, do you remember? I told you that you had to leave, that they were coming."

At her nod, he reminded her, "And you said no. You said no, and you almost-"

Hermione could still feel the _crucio_ charging through her body, burning her alive from the inside as it set cell after cell on fire. She remembered screaming. Sometimes she dreamed about it and she'd still be screaming. "But I didn't."

"But it was enough for me to think that the harder decision would have been better," he sighed. "With all the close calls we've both been through, _that_ was the closest I ever got to deflecting."

She peered up at him. "Only that time?"

"You weren't the only one thinking that you wouldn't make it out alive. I…I was waiting for the day that someone would kill me because I was-" He shook his head, chuckling bitterly. "I was too tired to keep doing it myself. I kept telling myself I deserved to die in the most horrible way possible; that there'd be no peace for me, even in the next life, and I'd be fine with that because it would be what I deserved. I let them turn me into a monster and that's who I am now. It's how I deserve to be treated."

"Draco-"

"I know you did some terrible things – despite what the media told people; it was kill or be killed for both sides. But you deserved to walk out of it alive, if not my mother or Nymphadora, at least you."

"What…what did they do to you?" she asked and, although she had hesitated in the asking, Draco had a feeling she had been holding in that question for too long. It was what her eyes read that day when the news broke that he had killed Dumbledore. It was her eyes that asked the question whenever they were on the battlefield with wands aimed at one another; it was in her eyes whenever he took to the stand during his trial and stared blankly at the bereaved that cursed him.

The amount of compassion and hope she had for him, sometimes it was almost too much for him to bear. _What did they do to you?_ Merlin, she was so pure.

"Enough," he decided on.

"You've already seen what's happened to me, more than once," she said sharply. "And I...I have no idea what they did to you and I don't know what's worse, Draco, not knowing but imagining it or knowing it all."

"You do have a wild imagination," he allowed.

"Draco-"

"You won't like it," he warned.

"Was there ever going to be an answer I would like?" she retorted.

"That I didn't. That I was safe in Malfoy Manor."

That would never wash. Every room was a dungeon; every door led to torture; through every wall, someone could be heard howling. He shook his head.

Hermione knew it too; not with the ghosts on his shoulders nor the demons in his eyes. "That's not realistic."

"No," he recalled, "it's not a realistic thought at all."

"Then…?"

"Fenrir Greyback."

His name came from her lips in a harsh whisper, "Are you-"

"No." He paused. "At least I wasn't for long; Nymphadora, her husband, and Snape started brewing potions and sneaking them to me to ward it off before I could experience my first full moon. The effects of Fenrir's _delightful_ _company_ were minimized to emotional and mental trauma but, as for any signs of lycanthropy, all abated except for some unease during the full moon which I treat with potions."

"Draco-"

"And my father," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Your father?"

"It had to be him, or Voldemort would have picked someone else. Someone who wouldn't care about my punishment; someone who would make sure the message got across that Voldemort did not accept failure, with zero thought to the consequences I would bare," Draco continued. "Father did his best to spare me, at least. He avoided all major organs and arteries; nothing permanent, nothing too damaging, debilitating...or awful." He swallowed. "My mother couldn't forgive him for it, though. I think for her that was the time to make the hard choice."

"She was right."

He smiled slightly. "She always is."

.

With a flourish, he presented her with the pile of newspapers that had accumulated just this morning from all over Britain. Everything from The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly to smaller publications, basically local papers, were now talking about one thing and one thing only: "They're calling it The Scandal of the Century."

"They're dramatic and stupid."

"And you're no fun."

A grin tickled the corner of her lips, even as Hermione rolled her eyes. "Neville, you're not really buying into this gossip, are you?"

"They're titillating," he defended, dumping the load he had brought in on her desk and sliding into the seat across from her, until he suddenly paused – hovering over the cushion while balancing his weight on his hands on the armrests. "Wait, you didn't…on this…did you?"

She rolled her eyes again and waved at him dismissively. "The desk and the chair are safe."

Plopping down with a grin, the man remarked, "And here I was ready to be thoroughly disturbed, disgusted–"

"And titillated?"

"Hermione, I'd never," he said with a small gasp of surprise. "You're like a sister to me – Draco on the hand–"

"Remind me again why I'm friends with you, Longbottom?" she interjected once more, a single brow raised in an expression of distaste which only seemed to amuse her companion further.

"Because, besides your boyfriend and me not having _that_ in common, we're also rather fond of you." At her snort, the man continued to grin. "Besides, who else can truly marvel at the genius and cunning wit embodied by one Hermione Granger? I mean, I can't exactly please you in other ways so I might as well grovel before the leader of the New World Order while I still have the chance to secure a private audience with her, no?"

With an exhale that sounded more like a huff, she shuffled the pile of glorified kindling aside. "You're getting ahead of yourself," Hermione dismissed once more. "They're divided on Draco and I; that's hardly progress."

"Rome wasn't built in a day," he said with a shrug.

"And a legacy can't be traded as quickly either, though, they'll try." The Daily Prophet that morning featured a separate yet another set of moving photographs of Hermione and Draco – both going on about their business – while another featured a smaller raunchier image of the two embracing after a quiet evening in yet another exclusive pure-blood establishment where they had _thought_ no one would see them. The headline was bursting with accusations of Hermione succumbing to her hormones and falling under the spell of the most notorious Death Eater still walking free amongst the masses.

" _It's a travesty_ ," Hermione had recalled reading aloud that morning as Draco rested his chin atop her crown, warm, restless hands tracing runes along her thighs. _"A war heroine so easily swayed by this innate – naïve – desire to give this man a second chance simply because he knows how to wear his robes? Or perhaps, it's what going on under those robes that has Ms. Granger so insistent that there's a good person in there."_

"Skeeter really has been waiting to go after you again, hasn't she?" Neville observed in the present, a strange echo of Draco's own remark from earlier that morning.

"To be fair," she said dryly, "I did keep her trapped in a jar."

"Should have just let me step on her while you had the chance," the man across from her vented, "it would've been entirely an accident and neither of us would feel particularly guilty about it anyway."

"Be that as it may, she's still around to sling mud at me. Which I was hoping for, really."

"What do you mean?"

"A legacy – an idea – doesn't just change at will, it needs to be warped and molded into something else otherwise it's inorganic, unbelievable." _It gets worse before it gets better._ "So they'll have to question me; my ethics; my mind; my abilities. They'll rip apart every inch of me that I've let the media see. They'll find people to say things about me, true or otherwise, to support their theories that I could never possibly feel genuinely for Draco; that he was planning something all along and is just using me – reducing me to someone emotionally needy and weak; something that makes sense to them as to why I'd risk everything I am in their eyes for a man who has seemingly nothing."

"And then the truth will come out," Neville completed.

"Well, the truth we want them to know – anyway," she agreed with a slight smile. It wouldn't be easy for her despite the effortlessness with which she recited the process. Hermione had carefully crafted her public persona and to put that, and the legacy she had built from age eleven onwards, on the line for a hope – a chance at something more – was a lot riskier in practice.

"And Draco knows, then?"

"He knows," she admitted, looking away from Neville's disapproving stare. "Neither of us is new to this; we know what needs to be done."

He certainly hadn't been happy with it but their routines of dancing with devils hardly ever needed practice. Hermione knew he was displeased with the thought of putting her in the line of fire, though he hadn't been foolish enough to think it could be avoided. He did, however, make her promise that what happened to the Daily Prophet, and to one Rita Skeeter, would be entirely up to him once they got what they wanted from them.

"I can handle it, Neville, I've had worse."

Despite the self-deprecating smile, her friend remained concerned. "What if they dig?"

"They will; it's what we want," she said, impressing upon her companion a severe expression of resolution just as a knock came at her door.

"Ms. Granger," her secretary, Arielle, stuck her head in. "I'm sorry. I know you only planned to check in today but Miss Craft would like a word with you."

Hermione cleared her throat and pushed aside her forgotten paperwork. "Of course; Neville?"

"I'll reschedule tea then, shall I?" Nodding at Bertina as she framed the doorway, the wiry man slipped out of the office just in time before she shut the door in his wake.

Putting on her well-practiced professional smile Hermione chirped, "The Werewolf Registration is going well, the very idea of it should be shut down entirely by the end of the week. I'm working on a referendum, though, to make sure we won't have to tackle this problem again – no doubt they'll want to find a way to reword it in order for it to fit some other discriminatory creature act. I'd like to dismiss the possibility of it before it can even make its way to ink."

"Efficient as always, Miss Granger," she was rewarded with - although nothing in the lady's posture suggested she was at all pleased.

Hermione bowed her head nonetheless. "Of course." She waited exactly two beats of awkward silence before she cleared her throat and asked, with some timidity, "Is there something wrong?"

"I'm afraid we have a problem."

"Ma'am?"

Stepping closer to Hermione's desk, Bertina swept aside the proposals and research material to reveal the pile of tabloid trash Neville had brought in with him; headlines and moving pictures aplenty. Fortunately the one of their intimate embrace, however difficult to make out, was front and center and that alone was enough to make Hermione blush.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

She cleared her throat. "I doubt you're at all interested in my personal life."

"I'm not," her boss said, though leaning on her hands against Hermione's desk, she clarified, "but when it affects this office, I care plenty."

Any protests about how her dating life could _possibly_ affect a government office died on silent lips.

Hermione rarely worked angles beyond her emotional tirades – they were her signature, after all – so even her fearless leader could easily fall into the ploy of her naiveté, though just enough that Bertina could see the light come on for herself.

"Draco's changed," was the key two-word phrase that Hermione had decided on - simple, to the point and easy to remember - soon enough it would be a mantra, and eventually it would be like a game of word-association for everyone else. "I know Draco has an unfavorable reputation but it's been almost five years since the war ended – he's been practically invisible and unheard of ever since."

"But what could you possibly gain from being with him? Hermione – this could ruin you!"

Something no one has ever said to a man about the woman he chooses to play house with, Hermione thought in a huff. "He's changed," she repeated instead, and to demonstrate, she added, "He's been attending court over the Werewolf Registration Act for his orphaned nephew who just so happens to show signs of lycanthropy. How does that not make him look good?"

"Exactly, _look_ – _seeming to_ – oh, Hermione, he has _so much_ more to gain from a union with you. The positive press he's getting as opposed to yours, it's just not right," Bertina lamented, shaking her head. "I can't have one of my solicitor's integrity put into question – not when we're so close to putting something as dangerous as the Registration to bed."

She bit her tongue against the accusation that Bertina had never suggested anything about Ron – running around chasing every skirt that walked his way – making her look like the fool even though _he_ had been the one making an idiot of himself.

"What do you want me to do," Hermione asked, "hold a press conference to show I'm not, in fact, some hormonal teenage girl?"

"Of course not," Bertina dismissed, almost scandalized.

"Well I'm not going to stop seeing Draco simply because of it."

She could practically read the pity in her boss' eyes – _oh, she really was a fool, wasn't she, like always? Brightest-Witch-of-her-Age, Hermione Granger, still being strung around by the men she finds attractive._

"Well then, you need to be more subtle than-than this," Bertina said, gesturing to the articles before them. "You're clever; you know how to spin this – surely? So you look less like a red woman?"

"He's single and so am I!"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Malfoy has a reputation! At least bring him out of the damned shadows and the elitist eateries; the opposition is already claiming you've been seduced by the romantics of pure-blood breeding – that you've grown out of touch."

"And you think the public will just welcome him with open arms?" Hermione asked with no small amount of mockery.

"Of course it won't be easy," Bertina soothed. "But he's a controversial figure and you're my right hand. I have no jurisdiction over who you date but, as your friend, I'm helping you how I can. You don't need to keep hiding him; the press already know about you both so you might as well use it!"

Swallowing her smile, Hermione shook her head. "I don't know; I'll need to think about it."

.

"I don't think she knows what she's doing, I mean –"

"Harry," Luna interjected, pushing her pink spectacles up the bridge of her nose. "Is there something wrong?"

"Luna," he emphasized, running a hand through his hair in irritation and regretting entirely his decision to visit the witch, no matter how often in the past she had been good at settling his conscious. "That's the whole reason I'm – that's why I came to see you! I – Ginny thinks I'm mental!"

"Are you?"

"No – I just, I'm worried about Hermione," he repeated for what felt like the billionth time as he began to pace restlessly. "The press are losing their minds over this and all because it's Malfoy! They didn't talk as much shit about this when she was spotted with Cormac of all people!"

"She wasn't seen with Cormac for more than two weeks." Luna hummed. "Besides, he's hardly controversial."

Harry pointed at her, as if that was the point he was trying to make since he arrived at the Quibbler's headquarters. "Exactly! Why the hell did she have to go and be interested in _Malfoy_?"

The pale woman made a noncommittal shrug. "Probably because she's in love with him."

" _What?"_

Again, the woman shrugged and, though she parted her lips to speak, she seemed to think better of it and muttered instead that the Nargles seemed especially lively today.

"Luna, what do you mean? Hermione... _and Malfoy?_ She can't be! Things with Ron just ended – she's not the type to-"

"Do you really know your friend as much as you think?"

Flabbergasted, he repeated "What?"

How could he not? Hermione was the closest thing to family besides Ron; she was practically a sister to him! They'd been friends since they were eleven!

"How could I not know her?"

Luna peered at him thoughtfully for a moment before thinking aloud to herself, "I forget that people can stop noticing."

"Noticing," he parroted, "noticing what?"

"Noticing that people change – it's one of the few constants in the human condition." She forgot that people like Harry tended to stop caring once he got too comfortable – how accepting and compliant he could be when put into a situation long enough. Luna mused that that was probably why he was so easily manipulated; why pushing him from soldier to figure head had sent him scrambling for what he thought was freedom but was some washed out version of the Horcrux Hunt – just without the danger and a lot more sex.

Well, we had to find our ways to heal, didn't we?

"Hermione learns; it's who she is and what she does. After Ron, do you really think she'd settle for someone mediocre?"

"So she's just doing this to get back at Ron?"

Having adapted to suppress most outward expressions of displeasure, Luna didn't even have to restrain the urge to roll her eyes, though she thought she would have to. So simple, Harry was; always ready to accept a black and white world – a wizard as powerful as him that so easily took to orders without question was the perfect weapon but so shoddy as anything more than that; he was too volatile, too unyielding to the shades of grey.

No wonder Dumbledore had stuck him with Ron – a moral compass that suited his temperament – and Hermione – a bridge to get him from Point A to B with little to no prompting except to suit the ends articulated to her.

Luna had to give her old headmaster credit, he knew what combinations worked.

"Hermione isn't that petty – she can't afford to be – not when everyone's constantly watching and judging her," she said. "She's been betrayed and humiliated, and she tried to move on from it within the parameters given to her. Cormac would have been an acceptable partner after Ron but that didn't work because Ron still thought he had a claim on her."

She waited a beat for Harry to interject but he only chewed at his lip so she continued patiently, "And how did she meet Draco again? In a courtroom, wanting to know about a Registration that has only a latent effect on him because it could affect his nephew."

"He seemed like her type," he mumbled.

"Exactly – neither Ron nor Cormac would ever try and involve themselves in things she's passionate about – and Draco did."

"But he could just be doing it to make himself look good!"

"Why would he risk it with Hermione of all people? She has arguably the best reason to hate him." She could see the conflict take over his face, adding, "She forgives him, but she's a practical person and doesn't expect everyone to do so as well; she doesn't expect you to accept him which is probably why she's been trying to hide it the way she has."

"The media doesn't help -"

"No, I'm sure you know how that works."

He nodded begrudgingly, finally seating himself across from her, bracing his elbows against his knees and cradling his head in his hands. "Hermione told me – I just – I've just been having a hard time with it. So much has changed and I feel like she's hiding things from me and _that's_ never happened before."

"Perhaps it's because you've stopped asking to know her secrets."

He haunted Grimmauld Place, alternating his existence from a mourning ghost to a smiling war hero turned Auror that the media loved to pieces. Luna wondered if she was one of the few that got to see who he actually was as even Ginny had taken to playing pretend with him. And Hermione, well, after keeping him alive for so many years, she was rightfully focused on her own recovery.

"Would she tell me, if I asked?" he asked in a rasp.

"She might – just don't expect her to tell you right away. Whether you knew it or not, you asked her to pick between you and Ron, and Draco. She may trust you with her life but she doesn't trust you with this."

Harry slumped in his chair. "I guess I'm going to have to apologize."

"That would help."

"Thanks Luna."

She nodded; an airy smile dismissing him as she took to her work once more. The Quibblers' competition were all singing the same song about Hermione's budding relationship so, summoning a quill, she took to correcting that notion with next week's article.

Harry would, no doubt, make an appearance again although Luna wasn't surprised that he had come so soon in the first place. Draco owed her a quid.

Tilting her head this way and that, Luna reread the bold headline and decided Hermione would be pleased.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

"You don't need to do this," Hermione found herself saying - for what felt like the hundredth time since she'd accidentally talked him into it.

Though, to be fair on her, she hadn't _meant_ to do it.

When she had received the owl before she left the office, it had been the first thing that came to mind when he asked about her day.

Sure, she may have talked about it for almost ten minutes but she was _excited._

This was one of the few things Hermione did that wasn't as outwardly affected by her token-status than anything she did in the courtrooms. It was one of the first, and only, things she had done with Ron and Harry after the War that actually seemed worth doing at the time.

Having to listen to testimonies from Death Eaters that showed no remorse for their crimes, still persisted in any ignorance of wrongdoing, or blamed it on an _Imperius_ curse was the last thing on any of their minds.

They disagreed on what they could do after all, they couldn't just _do nothing_. The ragtag Ministry coalition, that had formed to help the wizarding community recover from the War, had impressed upon them the importance of being seen – of doing their part.

Ron had been angry; the wound of Fred's death still so fresh that he told them off for trying to use them when they'd _already fought and won the fucking war for you bastards!_

The worst part was that Ron saw through their manipulations so easily then, and she, even clouded with exhaustion, nightmares and raging PTSD, had persuaded him into compliance.

It delayed Harry running away – at least it had some merits – but the task they had decided on together, to head and to be seen being a part of, almost made it feel like they were actually contributing. It was cathartic getting to build something instead of breaking and, for a few months; Hermione almost felt like that this was how they were going to recover.

Life, however, worked out differently and the project which made every paper in Wizarding Britain grew smaller and smaller.

Ron left after the media coverage dwindled and Harry ran after one too many public appearances and political photographs. He was the Ministry's prized puppet until he'd had enough, and only Hermione remained, the metaphorical noose tightening around her neck as a result.

Still, she kept up the efforts, purely for her own sanity.

Bit by bit, year after year; and all the hard work was going to pay off. She was finally going to see something – pure and good and untainted by bad intentions reach its completion – and she helped make it happen.

Having their appearance there, where it all began, be their first public confirmation of them being a couple outside of their rendezvous in the shadows, just added to how _right_ it felt.

That it happened to help achieve their aims too, was an added bonus.

Bertina had, with a gleam in her eye, given Hermione her totally unnecessary blessing to take some time from work to appear in the too-small-to-be-actually-called-an-event event.

She had, in fact, fully intended to go since its announcement – it had been penciled into her diary for months – making Draco's presence with her quite daring.

He had successfully avoided the public eye for years and, to show up to any event – however minuscule or poorly attended – would be huge.

It spoke highly of how important Hermione was to him and how much he was willing to risk to prove it - not just to her but to everyone else.

The small audience was perfect for the task as well; they'd get up close and personal with the fabled Youngest Death Eater of the Dark Lord and find he was nothing more than a man.

But how much of a man they would realize he was? _That_ worried Hermione.

It didn't have to be _this event_ he attended with her, anyway; it was an option, sure. She liked options and choices and – _he didn't have to do this_.

"Granger," he repeated patiently, "I know."

"I'm just saying," she knew she was rambling - her voice pitching to an over-excited chatter, "there's a small charity drive for S.P.E.W that Luna is running; we're knitting!"

"And you know I'd rather upend Theodore's box of toys on my head than do that," was his dry response.

She suppressed the wince. Any mention of his nephew was a definite _no,_ then. "Fair point, but also -"

"Granger," he sighed. Perhaps that was a bit too strong of a response. "We're already here. What would be the point of turning back now?"

"Technically, we're standing outside my Floo so we _could_ still turn back if you want to."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Give me some credit. I may not be a Gryffindor but I'm not a total coward."

"There's nothing cowardly about not wanting to do this," she reminded him quietly, practically chewing off her bottom lip with the worry.

Sighing once more, he stopped and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "We're doing this." When she remained unconvinced, he added, "I'll be okay. You worry too much."

With a huff, blowing out her bangs in the process, Hermione grumbled, "Fine."

Grabbing his hand in hers, she matched his step and declared, "But you're holding my hand the whole time, Mister. No going down the dark and twisty road, you hear me?"

Dutifully, albeit with no small amount of sarcasm, he replied, "Yes ma'am."

As they stepped into the fireplace, he tightened his grasp on hers as she dropped the handful of Floo powder and announced, "Hogwarts."

.

Only seven other people were at the final tour of the rebuilt school: Daphne Greengrass, Katie Bell, Cho Chang, Ernie MacMillan, Seamus Finnegan, a sleepy-eyed reporter from the Wizard Daily, and an equally uninterested Witch Weekly intern who drew the short straw.

Their fellow students were frosty, to say the least, although Hermione still managed a cheery hello to all – despite her dwindling enthusiasm.

Professor McGonagall, whom she had written to the night before about whether or not Draco would be welcomed back into the hallowed halls of their school if he were to attend the small ceremony, was gracious as always and offered a smile to the stiff form of the former Slytherin at Hermione's side.

Besides their esteemed Professor – now Headmistress of their former school – only Daphne deigned to acknowledge Draco at all by nodding coolly in greeting.

Brushing that aside, the walk to the Astronomy Tower was…interesting, to say the least.

Katie and Cho, for whatever reason, had suddenly taken a great interest in the schematics of the Tower's reconstruction, speaking in sharp whispers to the headmistress who was leading the way. Ernie, on the other hand, made small talk with the no-longer-sleepy-eyed Wizard Daily reporter whilst maintaining the constant side glances they both cut towards Draco in open curiosity.

Seamus, in true brash Gryffindor fashion, was not so subtly retelling some of Draco's most impressionable years to the Witch Weekly intern who looked like she had hit the big time by landing this gig.

Hermione, more than willing to play Seamus' ill-advised game, was quick to tell Draco – and the Witch Weekly reporter – how often it was Seamus who was caught instigating altercations with the Slytherin Firsties and how his attempts at pranks had gotten house points docked so fast Fred and George had a sit down with him to tell him to knock it off.

At that, he finally found the brain cells to at least whisper his judgments after that.

Draco managed a slight smirk at the pointed recollection, telling her quietly that the Weasley twins carried quite a bit of respect from their rival house. "Cunning and clever; they'd have fit right in."

"No ambition though," Katie, who had been eavesdropping in front of them, commented before immediately stiffening at her mistake.

"Did you hear about their prank on Snape during their Potions exam?" Draco asked with his brow arched in aristocratic disapproval, causing Ernie to chortle in surprise. "They were in detention until Easter but, if attempting a combination of a Seventh Year charm and a Sixth Year potion at the same time during an exam isn't ambitious, I don't know what is."

Professor McGonagall huffed out a laugh of her own and shook her head.

The mood became less strained after that, and the not-so-sleepy-eyed reporter even ventured a question to Draco (which the Witch Weekly reporter seemed envious of since Seamus didn't seem to be anywhere near letting her off), "What brings you to today's occasion, Lord Malfoy?"

He exhaled quietly and informed, "Closure."

As they ascended the staircase, Draco let in a sharp intake of breath and Hermione tightened her fingers around his.

"Okay?"

His nod was slight. "Okay."

They found the space of the tower to be unchanged although Hermione could spot the obvious new additions in architecture and design, vaguely hearing the tail-end of Professor McGonagall's explanation of the tower's reconstruction efforts from her inspection.

"Why did it take so long?" the intern asked.

"We were actually looking for sponsors for a new scope for the tower," the Professor informed, "we didn't want to get the exact same one. There was nothing wrong with it but we wanted the rebuilding of the school to be _more_ than just trying to make everything look the same. We were aiming to improve what came before it."

It was a good motto to have, Hermione noted, sharing a smile with her favorite Professor.

"I heard the goblins wouldn't even help to put it back together," Seamus sneered, "something about it being cursed."

"That would be inaccurate; goblins are impervious to wizarding curses," Daphne interjected, though she seemed decidedly less interested in the tower itself now that she'd seen it.

"Probably why you got your daddy to pay for a new scope, huh?"

The Professor didn't waste a second to shut her former charge up by sharply declaring, "If Miss Greengrass did sponsor it, we can only thank her."

"So it was a benefactor sponsor then?" the intern persisted. Professor McGonagall only made a slight smile in reply before moving on about the room – talking about this fixture and this use and that thing – which the intern insisted was not as important as who paid for the room's defining feature.

Despite the warm feeling that blossomed in her chest because _what else was this man trying to fix?_ Hermione cast a worried glance his way and noted how he seemed to be blinking rapidly at nothing, his frighteningly still – as if he weren't breathing at all.

"Draco, are you okay?" she asked, keeping her voice low but it seemed that her former housemate wasn't quite done aggravating him for the day as Seamus snorted derisively.

"He's probably reliving his first murder."

.

" _You can't use an Unforgivable if you don't know what it feels like, nephew."_

It happened when they were still at school – the year Voldemort regained his strength and power within the walls of Draco's home – his ancestral home; the family seat of power.

Appearances were all Draco had left; he was a Malfoy for fuck's sake. Who was there for him to turn to? Who would believe him? Who would spare him? All he had left was the persona of Draco Malfoy: disdainful, haughty, and superior. But it was a miserable time regardless of how he acted to hide it and, on the night of the Yule Ball; he contemplated the window of the Astronomy Tower and wondered if everything would just go away should he take that one little step over the edge.

In his most fantastical of romantic ravings, he imagined that he'd join the constellations his family had always taken pride in naming themselves after; that he should find his way into the heavens now before he truly deserved his place in hell.

 _Imperio_

Draco remembered pausing in his contemplations only because of the crying that was breaking his concentration; reminding him of what his mother would sound like if he did take that leap and of the choking noises his father would make at having to come to the school to identify his body. So he stepped away from the ledge.

At the darkest moment of his young life, Draco found his bit of grace.

Granger – in her periwinkle dress with her hair, once in ordered chaos atop her head, breaking free of their bindings and spilling down her back and across her shoulders – weeping on the steps.

She was mourning for her own childish innocence lost; a dress that wouldn't make her a princess and a crown of curls that wouldn't make her a queen in the eyes of some ungrateful boy who didn't deserve her.

She cried like a Gryffindor Draco remembered thinking; loud, unashamed, and feeling her hurt so completely that it physically shook her.

He envied her release; craved it, really.

 _Crucio_

Before he could stop himself, he offered the handkerchief his mother always insisted he carried in his pocket – _in case of emergencies, darling_ – and for a moment, Granger looked up and she _fucking saw him_.

His limbs still shaking and his eyes already haunted by what the future would have for him, she looked scared for a second; at the specter that had appeared before her.

Still, she-she stumbled to her feet to reach him, arms stretched out to touch him – _hold him?_ – as her lips were forming the words, "What happened? Are you okay?"

The careless, almost instinctual, the sentiment was louder than the veiled pleas of his parents to _stay_ _strong, you're a Malfoy; you're our son, our only son. Don't get in the way, don't-don't try and fight them._ _Merlin_ , _be smart and stay safe_ – as they shoved him onto the train as far away from Voldemort as they could manage.

But here was Granger – honest and good Granger – wanting to offer him comfort – wanting to show compassion –

And suddenly that persistent chill that had settled into his bones started to warm; tingling his singed nerves back to life and Draco had never felt more frightened – or alive.

 _Avada Kedavra_

Her fingertips were warm against his cheeks, doe brown eyes staring into his intently as she took an exaggerated breathe – in – out – in – out –

He copied the rise and fall of her chest and was rewarded by the tangle of her fingers at the hair at the nape of his neck. Her rosebud lips puffed out a final exaggerated breath before she leaned forward to press their foreheads against one another, exhausted and relieved.

"Granger," he rasped.

"You're okay," she murmured back, by way of explanation, and he took an almost frantic stock of his surroundings.

The scent of parchment and ink lay heavy in the air, unsurprising with the walls covered inch by inch with books. Any open gaps the room had been tastefully filled with framed maps and diagrams whilst above shimmered with an illusion of the night sky embedded into the ceiling.

His eyes connected the dots on the front of the dipper before catching sight of his namesake curling between Ursa Major and Polaris; keeping guard over Granger's haven. He huffed out quietly, "We're in the library?"

"Ernie helped me take you to the Infirmary," she began, "but we had a particularly determined Witch Weekly intern on our hands so I decided to make an escape. I hope you don't mind."

He shook his head slightly. "How-"

Licking her lips anxiously, Hermione cut in, "You had a panic attack."

When he jerked at the words, she shushed him to calm, explaining, "Katie got rid of Seamus, and Professor McGonagall tried to help, but you started thrashing around and Ernie had to hold you-"

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, no; Daphne was pretty quick to get me away from you."

When he began to squirm, Hermione continued to soothe, "Draco-Draco, everything's okay now. I'm here, I've got you."

The look on her face seemed to ache with something and, when he finally stilled long enough to realize that she wanted him to, she wrapped her arms around him tight and the breath she released was shaky.

Eventually, he returned her embrace, wrapping his arm across her back. "I'm sorry I scared you," he mumbled into her shoulder.

Shaking her head vehemently, she only swallowed the growing lump in her throat. "I shouldn't have made you come here."

"You didn't make me do anything," he reminded.

"No, but I suggested, and then I didn't say no enough, and–"

"And I still would have insisted we come."

"You weren't ready, though," she burst, pulling away from him enough so he could see her flushed face and tear-stained cheeks. "I should have known and now I've hurt you."

"Granger." Pressing his hand against the back of her neck and bringing his lips against her forehead, he told her warily, "I don't think I'd ever be ready but I needed to come here."

"For closure?" she asked, her hand gripping the front of his robes.

Hermione knew, of course, that it wasn't him that killed Dumbledore – that it was the cursed ring and Snape – but he mumbled, "Yeah" and that was enough for her to peer up at him, her entire body growing painfully still as she asked, "Draco…what did you do?"

"It wasn't what I did – it was what I didn't."

Her strained gasp was her only reply and, for however long she had spent coaxing him back to reality by facing his demons and withstanding his terrors, he held her just as long, murmuring softly, "I'm sorry I never told you."

 **Thank you for helping me reach 500 follows. Special thanks to Rachel for making this possible – and legible.**


	10. Chapter 10

10.

It took another few days before Draco was seen out in public again, not that anyone could blame him.

Ever since the papers got wind of his panic attack, the gossip hounds were nipping at every heel they could find. Not even Draco's payments of anonymity could be accepted, considering how much gold the Prophet, Wizard Daily and Witch Weekly were making in Draco's stead on Draco's drama, it was an understandable move.

Draco did a good job of displaying his frustration.

Hermione couldn't help but feel conflicted at how "on track" the whole thing was.

"It wasn't planned, obviously, but it works in our favor."

"I didn't want them to see you like that," she murmured in apology, tracing her fingers over his – outstretched across the table to meet one another as they shared a pot of tea.

Dryly, with fingers tangled together, he reported, "It was potent and visceral, and it worked. Nothing gets them going more than flaming authenticity."

 _That_ , she couldn't deny.

The papers were up in arms against one another over what was the _truth_ , and the people that read them were arguably even more divided.

Hermione had heard enough whispers around the Ministry to cause glass to shatter and objects to spontaneously combust as she passed - wasn't it great that Malfoy broke down in the Astronomy Tower? Doesn't he deserve to be upset and haunted? Isn't it a terrible pity he wasn't ruined!

Others sympathized; it was a sign that they not only believed in Draco's goodness and in Hermione's belief of him, it was also a sign that together - they would be acceptable.

Draco had some good in him, and whether or not Hermione brought it out was irrelevant, as a person it was there; he felt remorse and regret – and that was a step up from an unfeeling monster who stood in court and took the verbal beatings of his personal failings as a person because he happened to have no choice. After all, "Harry Potter had such good role models, what did Draco Malfoy have?"

That was all the motivation both of them needed to step up their appearances one day at a time.

They attended them cautiously and as unobtrusively as possible; opportunism would be sniffed out and splashed out all over the papers to change the narrative all over again – and there was no room for error or mistake. Neither of them had the time or taste for failure.

"Prudent," Lady Augusta observed with a tip of her head.

There was no lying to the crone, one look at them and she had the skeleton of their plan in her mind's eye, and whether it was old age or just a tendency against giving less shits about pretenses, she asked outright.

Draco was surprisingly obliging.

"Your mother was much the same as a girl," Lady Augusta said upon his confirmation of her suspicions. "Frank was always a little frightened of her in school, fragile looking as she was."

Draco smiled a little at that before observing, "Fragile like a bomb rather than glass."

Chuckling quietly, Lady Augusta echoed, "Quite." Before adding, "Malfoy men always have a way of picking roses; beauty with thorns."

Hermione despite herself, blushed.

When Neville came back into the parlor, something changed in the way Lady Augusta spoke to her grandson, and with a huff, she shooed him away once more.

Exchanging a curious glance with one another as Neville was once again dismissed from their visit, the matriarch of the Longbottom family smirked. "When you're my age you find pleasure in simple things, annoying my grandson tops them all."

"So you aren't trying to get him married?" Hermione found herself asking, making her friend's grandmother snort. "Please, he would sooner set fire to his greenhouse. He'll likely call it a way to start afresh, something or other. Bah, at least this way I can find a way to push his buttons just enough that he finally steps up and runs this family like he should. I've been through three wars, and I'm tired!"

To this, Draco snickered, and their visit was completed with Lady Augusta's support secured.

Following thereafter was a visit to the Janus Thickey Ward in St Mungo's, and though Draco had bowed out immediately and offered to wait outside while Hermione and Neville paid a visit to the latter's parents, his presence at all was enough to garner attention.

For two months, the pair of them bided their time – appearing in small gatherings, events and casual chats over tea with anyone they needed to.

Bertina rightfully thought it was to aid in their department, and it thrilled her unendingly that Draco's good sense and political awareness was encouraging Hermione to branch out for perceived help, rather than go it alone on her crusades for justice. Their pace suited Bertina just fine as well, and again, she thought it was simply Hermione taking her advice, however cautiously it was.

As their third month as a still-rumored couple rolled around, Bertina had to nip it in the bud and sent Hermione's invitation to the Ministry Gala with a plus-one attached.

Hermione could only comply.

.

They were met with silence when they were finally introduced, though Hermione told herself she much preferred it to the scattered applause that met the other couples.

Draco, for his part, was used to having his picture taken by the press, and being intimately acquainted with the dimensions of her body, knew exactly how to hold her to get that perfect shot even as they descended the staircase.

It was decided, by one and all, that they made a stunning pair - according to the self-proclaimed leader of the gossip mill, Lavender Brown. Despite the frosty reception, Hermione was convinced the hushed comments would be working in their favour for the night. And _that_ was a major achievement considering both of them had worked so hard to sway public opinion in their favor especially once Draco had given her the go-ahead to do what was needed.

A few strategic "leaks" of his accounts – his charity work and financial contributions in an attempt to correct his past wrongs – left his naysayers tight lipped and the Ministry red-faced. Bertina, however, managed to put a stop to any suggestions of Draco being the benefactor, though encouraged the good press all the same; it suited her too that Draco was seen in a good light after all.

Hermione fretted that Draco would regret not releasing the information himself sooner, if that was all it took to change the minds of many. Instead, however, he turned Hermione into his official liaison at the Ministry, and the press ate it up.

Just last week when he refused to meet with former Minister, Cornelius Fudge, the Ministry's go-to puppet, and walked right into Hermione's office, the Daily Prophet was in hysterics about how Hermione was colluding with the former Death Eater.

Witch Weekly had turned it into a love story about the reform of a bully by the most famous Muggle-born in recent history. Wizard Daily was more conservative with its reporting, sticking to the verified facts, though the tone of skepticism lingered still. The Daily Prophet, on the other hand, turned Hermione into a confused young woman blinded by the urge to recover someone unsalvageable.

The Quibbler, however, told the truth with the most accurate report of their union: Hermione using Draco's coveted last name to gain a foothold in the tumultuous Pureblood arena, with Draco using Hermione to reestablish his family's prestige.

Neither were surprised that Luna knew what she did, and the three of them were under no illusion as to the percentage of people that would find it credible now that the Quibbler had published it. It was, after all, the magical version of the National Enquirer, and now that the truth was masked as a conspiracy under "Loony" Lovegood, the Ministry wouldn't be able to flirt with the mere suggestion of it.

Luna was just happy to stick it to the Ministry in her own way.

The general public, for all intents and purposes, looked like they were split between the Witch Weekly and The Daily Prophet set-up, which left Hermione and Draco with the task of bending the "truth" to their purpose.

There were still opinions that needed to be changed, after all, belief that needed to be won over, but every battle won was assurance that the war would be too. The more exposure they got, the more people they could get to believe their legitimacy; the better it looked for them.

No publicity was bad publicity.

"Hermione! I…There you are." Ron had the perfect timing, Hermione thought, exchanging a triumphed look with Draco as she slowly turned to acknowledge her former beau.

She didn't bother trying to hide her frosty tone, "Oh, hello Ronald; you're here?"

"Yeah, I was late." His brows were furrowed as he glanced between her and Draco, his complexion gradually reddening by the second. Clearly, he hadn't thought Draco would still be around.

Still, Ron was nothing if not stubborn. Determinedly, his focus zeroed in on her, "I was in Bulgaria, I don't know if you heard."

She didn't, and frankly she didn't care, not that it _should_ surprise Ron.

Even when they flamed out during arguments, time and distance hardly helped.

Hermione could think her way around anything from any angle, and depending on the reason for the argument, she'd only be amenable to a compromise - something Ron never seemed to understand. He was far more willing to hope she conveniently _forgot_ that they spit venom on wounds that were still gaping open.

After their spat in her office, which felt already like a lifetime past, Hermione knew better than to think that whatever fantasies Ron had of rekindling their relationship were over. In fact, it seemed that the time apart (and distance) was just enough to give Ron amnesia:

"I actually went to speak to Viktor," the redhead continued, resolute in ignoring Draco, even as he – affectionate and territorial as he was – slipped his arm around her waist, and raised a brow in vague curiosity.

"He has a girlfriend now, lovely witch really," Ron added, "almost as pretty as Fleur."

Hermione had never forgotten the way Ron had praised his sister-in-law, how he moaned about how _if only you put in the effort like she does_ , conveniently forgetting about Fleur's lucky dip in the Veela gene-pool.

Besides, any attempts to clean up, to make him happy or impress him a little were always laughingly rebuffed with, _"What are you trying to do, 'Mione?"_ It was clear, the standard was unfairly high, and she'd never reach it.

It wouldn't hurt to remind her of that fact, he thought, but instead the curly-haired witch shrugged.

"Good for him," Hermione echoed, her disinterest clear, already half turning to give her date her attention once more.

If only Ron realized how little his approval had come to be worth.

Flashing Draco a smile, she offered, "Dance with me?"

Her partner smothered the shit eating smirk into something familiar to Ron, before he squeezed her hand in agreement. As he was about to lead her off, Ron grabbed her by her forearm. "Are you even listening to me?"

The crowd's attention was more palpable at the contact, and there was a collective breath held.

"I heard you," she said, calmly, brow raised in question. "I just don't see how any of what you said affects me at all." The crowd around them tittered. Lowering her voice mockingly, she advised, "Don't make a scene, Ronald, I'm busy with my date."

They got all of three feet before he did exactly the opposite of that.

"He's a Death Eater, or have you forgotten? It's Malfoy! Bloody Malfoy! Don't tell me that trash from Witch Weekly is true!" The ballroom grew silent, and Ron whirled around looking for an ally. "He's a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake! Are you actually believing this shit?"

There were murmurs, some siding with Ron, though not enough to get involved. That, she found, irritated her more.

Hermione scowled. "For your information, Ronald, Draco and I are just friends."

"Friends who go to dinner, who have suspiciously late night meetings in your office, in your flat; get caught kissing in alleyways?" he demanded furiously. The side that was with him faltered at the reminder.

How much of it was a lie then, if one of Malfoy's worst enemies acknowledged how much time he was spending with a witch he should have hated on principle?

" _Did you hear? Malfoy sent a warning to Witch Weekly for that spread of him and Ms Granger in that alleyway, caught in an intimate embrace. He was angry about it, of course, but only because it was such a breach of privacy, you know. He didn't want to put Ms Granger on the spot like that, didn't want to make their private lives public opinion. Isn't he such a gentleman?"_

Hermione had the decency to blush, even as she retorted furiously, "What I do is none of your business, Ronald Weasley."

"He'd never go for you, though," the redhead persisted like the stubborn arse he was, and if that just didn't cross the line.

He had already humiliated her with that in the privacy of her office where he still had the chance to apologize and take it back, but now, here? In front of all these people?

"Even on the fucking fringes of society, he still gets treated like he was whacked with a golden spoon! He came out of that fucking shit war smelling like roses! _Roses_! He's richer than he was in the beginning, and he still gets looks from witches – there!" He pointed accusingly at them, female bystanders who were suddenly shoved before public scrutiny. "Looking at him like that! Like he could fuck them in the arse and they'd thank him – and you?" Ron turned to her, eyes wide with a mixture of sympathy and disbelief. "You think he'd pick you?"

The scandalized gasps rose, his side dissipating while Hermione had to clench her fists and breathe through the curses running through her head, Draco took a step towards him and began to speak so quietly even she had to strain her ears to hear him:

"I sincerely hope you have alcohol to blame for this disgusting behavior, Weasley, or you'll find out the extent at which I had to prove my worth to become the youngest Marked. Best I remind you as well that just because you couldn't appreciate Granger for the brilliant witch she is when you had her, that there are others who are more than willing to take your place."

"Exactly, you're just filling her Ron-shaped slot until she comes to her senses," he sneered.

"Your slot could be filled by my pinky."

Around them there was ripple of laughter, and despite it, Ron licked his lips with an almost feverish smile. "You won't last, Malfoy. Cormac didn't. That bitch will chase you away just like she does everyone else."

Hermione saw the punch coming, but it was almost a pity that Ron didn't.

.

She hadn't wanted to stay in the aftermath of the Ron episode, even though she had predicted his reaction down to the insults he plied them both with.

Draco knew with a certainty that just because he knows what attacks he would have to fend off, didn't make them hurt any less.

"I think you're secretly good at Divination," he informed.

"Don't insult me," she grumbled, her words slightly muffled. "I've had a rough night."

"Of being right? Problems only Hermione Granger could have, I'm sure." Her arms were crossed to stave off the cold, and that familiar urge to protect her made his hands twitch, and without protest, he gave in. Draco hugged her from behind, resting his chin against her crown, and in answer, her body and his practically sighed in relief. "Though, you missed the part about the weather being too shit to stand outside in a dress like this."

She nuzzled the arm he had thrown around her neck, and glanced at him from over her shoulder. "Is he gone?"

"All gone." He squeezed. "Considering the witnesses and the extent of his verbal abuse, you'll be able to get a restraining order against him without a problem."

Playing with the fabric at the arm around her neck, Hermione muttered, "You should know that what he said was true, though."

"Which part?"

"About chasing people away," she divulged, looking back to glimpse the sky again. "I'm good at leaving. I'm good at getting people to leave."

"Only those who weren't sure whether they wanted to stay in the first place," he remarked, adding with amusement. "Efficient of you, really; the undeserving end up weeding themselves out."

They stood in silence until she garnered up that Gryffindor courage to ask, "Do you want to stay?"

His arms tightened around her, memories of him standing helplessly as he watched her struggle, of him causing her pain, of him being inept in giving her what she needed. He dug his fingers against her ribs. "I don't deserve to."

"But," she persisted hesitantly, "will you anyway?"

His kiss against the side of her head was pressed hard, and she closed her eyes against the sudden well of emotion it dredged up, barely hearing over the roaring in her ears his reply, "I want to."

She nodded, and turning in her arms, she looked up at him with those same eyes from nearly a lifetime ago, and said, "Let's go home."

.

They never actually stayed in her flat. As soon as they walked in from one of their scheduled dates, they'd enter the Floo and go back to his apartment.

Tonight was different.

It seemed like the final break in her relationship with Ron, which though romantically it had ended, it was beyond repair in every aspect now. Hermione thought bitterly that she'd probably receive an Owl tomorrow from one of the Weasley clan, or heaven forbid, Harry, asking on Ron's behalf, to talk it out.

But she was done talking, done compromising. There were just some things you couldn't get back from. She slipped off her shoes, and mechanically began to undress.

Draco simply followed her to her room.

There was barely anything in her flat besides a lone couch, and the only part of the open plan that was stocked was the kitchen. Her bedroom, at least, fulfilled the minimum requirement.

She was in nothing but her underwear when she considered her bed.

"It's smaller than yours," she noted, as if for the first time.

He supposed it was an adjustment. They spent the majority of their time together at his place out of convenience. It was so much easier to dedicate time to plotting when there were house elves to make sure all your basic needs were cared for, and no one would bother them. Draco swore he could already hear the owls waiting outside her kitchen window.

"It's fine, we'll fit."

His shirt was undone and over her shoulders as soon as he said it before he ushered her into the bed.

"Wait, I've got pins in my hair," she reminded, and while he enjoyed the view of her neck and back bared without obstruction during the evening, he knew it came at a price.

It took the both of them tugging and pulling at the silver pins to get them all out, the little red accents at the end shining like flecks of blood as he threw them carelessly to the floor. In relief, she sighed, sinking into her bed while he reached for the curls and massaged the scalp beneath it.

If it was possible to melt into a person, she did, and as he adjusted her hair so that he wouldn't choke on it. She fell into him, grabbing his arm so that it was over her waist as she snuggled into his side; her back pressed into his front almost perfectly.

Hermione could feel the caress of his lips against her neck, almost lazily as he nuzzled her.

His warm, large hands found the part in the shirt she hadn't the time to button up, one hand outlined the bone at her hip while the other cupped a single breast protectively, thumb carelessly circling the peak.

She nudged him with her arse. "Draco."

The hand he had at her hip pressed her against his growing bulge, and he hummed his acknowledgement.

In reply, she moved her hips against him in a slow circle, just as his hand returned to her waist, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her knickers, curling at the sensitive skin just below her bellybutton.

Groaning quietly, her movement quickened, and almost by accident, his fingers slipped lower; the nipple he was teasing pinched and pulled at once, and she gasped his name.

Raising her leg with his knee, he rested her thigh on his hip as he prodded at her entrance from behind. His shallow thrusts were accompanied by barely concealed groans as the wetness between her thighs seeped onto his hardness.

"Remember this?" he murmured hotly in her ear, and when she could only moan in reply, he dove in harder, his clothed form only serving to frustrate them more as they tried to find release through sheer friction.

The stars she had come to associate with him winked in her vision, reminding her of a different time and place, when the war was still in full effect and she and some of the others decided that one night to be a teenager could do no harm to them when they'd probably be dead in a few months anyway.

It had been her birthday, and Dean had insisted, and Neville had agreed. They found themselves shouting the lyrics to songs they didn't know and drinking more alcohol than they had when Gryffindor won the House Cup.

A club in some city they couldn't remember the name of, and music blaring from every orifice; pumping through them like adrenaline as the group of them lost each other in the crowd of swaying bodies; was just the thing they needed after months on the run.

Hermione remembered dancing, remembered feeling his presence at her back; his warm hands flattening on her thighs, her hips and her abdomen, ghosting over her breasts before slipping back down to her thighs. The scent of him took the edge off, like the whiff of the Amortentia potion she was asked to identify in Slughorn's class; parchment and apples and Quidditch leather.

He'd gotten her off just by touching her, just by murmuring in her ear; the words unintelligible in her drunken state.

He had spun her around, squeezing her arse with one hand and cupping her neck with the other, he pressed his lips against hers, and though his face was unfamiliar, she knew it was him; in the taste of his tongue in her mouth, the desperation of his kiss.

Whether he was donning a face that wasn't his, sending her to oblivion surrounded by enemies and strangers at every turn; or in her bed with just the two of them, with only their clothes to separate them, she would know Draco Malfoy anywhere.

It was hard to forget a person you always wanted, but couldn't have.

Something could be said, however, for spoilt rich boys like Draco, and stubbornly determined girls like Hermione – they get what they want eventually.

 **As usual, all my love and affection to everyone that's read and reviewed so far, you're all incredible!**

 **A huge thank you to Rachel for making this story possible!**


End file.
